The Consulting Auror and His Healer
by YouCareSoMuch
Summary: Sherlock and John meet at Hogwarts when they are eleven years old. From Quidditch games to magical creatures, Hogwarts has a lot in store for these two boys who connect immediately. A series of oneshots. Potter!lock is my true love. I do not own these characters, I simply enjoy writing about/reading about/watching them. Continuing readers, the summary changed, story hasn't.
1. Quidditch

It was a clear and warm November day and the Quidditch pitch was packed to its bursting point with eager spectators. Gryffindor was playing against Slytherin and John, Gryffindor seeker, was confident the Gryffindors would triumph.

John had loved the game of Quidditch since his first day at Hogwarts. He lived for the adrenaline rush that tore through his veins as soon as he kicked off of the ground on his Cleansweep.

"And they're off!" Greg Lestrade shouted, acting as commentator for the match. Greg was a Hufflepuff in the same year as John. John liked Greg and had befriended him because of their mutual love of Quidditch.

"Gryffindor in position, Smith has the quaffle, she's speeding toward the goal, she passes to Jones; Jones approaches the keeper—He makes it! 10-0 to Gryffindor!"

John grinned and continued his lap around the pitch; the snitch was nowhere in sight. As he circled around the Ravenclaw side of the pitch he saw his friend Sherlock among the crowd of students. Sherlock looked bored. He wasn't watching the game, instead he seemed to be deducing the people around him. John knew that Sherlock couldn't care less about Quidditch and it meant a lot to John that Sherlock made the effort to come to all of John's matches—even if his friend wasn't a very attentive spectator.

Twenty minutes later and Gryffindor and Slytherin were battling brutally. Gryffindor still led 60-30 and the Slytherins were desperate to take the lead.

"Tyler of Slytherin has the Quaffle, he throws it to Douglas, Douglas passes to Allen. Can Allen beat the keeper? He can! 60-40 is the score, folks." Greg sounded a little worried.

High above the stands, John finally spotted the snitch. It was fluttering in the middle of the pitch and the Slytherin seeker, Moran, hadn't seen it yet. John shot forward on his Cleansweep and he heard gasps below him at his abrupt movement. Moran's eyes followed John's movement and John urged his broom to move faster.

"C'mon..." he muttered, "A little farther..."

Moran and John closed in on the snitch from both sides, John stretched out his arm when he was five feet away from the glittering, gold sphere. Moran glared at him scathingly and in a split second the battle was over—John clutched the cold snitch in his left hand and rose his arm into the air in celebration.

The crowd erupted in cheers mingled with boos from the disheartened Slytherins. John beamed in pride as the rest of the Gryffindor team clapped him on the back and screamed in jubilation.

"That's the game, everyone!" Greg shouted into the magical megaphone, "Watson's got the snitch and Gryffindor wins!"

John kept his fist in the air and started to circle the stadium, adrenaline still pumping through his veins.

Then suddenly the celebration was cut short. It happened during John's victory lap. He was thirty feet above the ground and still cheering with the rest of the team when he was slammed from behind by something big. John's heart skipped a beat and before he knew what had happened he was tumbling through the air.

The fall seemed to last ages. John flailed his arms and felt the wind whip through his hair and cause his robes to fly about him wildly. The screams in the crowd had changed from celebratory to shocked and scared, but John could barely hear them. John closed his eyes and braced for impact.

He hit the ground hard; John felt his left arm twist into an unnatural position and there was a sickening crack in the vicinity of his chest. John gasped in shock and pain and curled in on himself on the ground, not caring about the danger of possible cracked ribs puncturing organs and only wanting a reprieve from the immense pain. Frantic voices surrounded John and he struggled to stay conscious; he must've gotten a concussion upon impact as well.

"Move! _Move!_ Let me through!"

Sherlock's voice overpowered the worried mutterings of the Gryffindor team and John forced his eyes open, wanting to reassure his friend. "He's my friend! Move!" Sherlock pushed away the bystanders vehemently and knelt by John's side, already scanning John from head to toe to take in the extent of the damage.

"What hurts, John? Are you alri— what am I saying? Of course you're not alright, you just fell thirty feet from an airborne broomstick! Yes—two cracked ribs, your left arm is badly dislocated, you have a mild concussion." Sherlock groaned in frustration. "You're the one studying to be a healer! I've deleted all of those medical spells and you need immediate attention— "

"Sherlock." John gasped, "Stop." It was extremely painful to breathe, let alone talk, but Sherlock was about to have a panic attack, John needed to calm him down.

"Stop? What do you mean stop? I'm the only one trying to help you! Everyone else is standing about uselessly! What are you gawking at, Graham? You know the gurney spell, don't you? Do it!"

John heard Greg Lestrade sigh in exasperation from somewhere beyond his haze of pain. "Yes. I know it. Calm down, Sherlock, Madam Pomfrey will put him right in about two seconds. Not that I'm not worried about you, John," Greg added as if to appease John. "That fall was terrifying."

"Terrifying, yet, not one person did anything to stop it! It would have been the easiest thing in the world to perform a Cushioning Charm and save John a lot of pain. A stadium full of hundreds of wizards and not one acted fast enough!"

Sherlock continued babbling while Greg conjured a gurney and levitated John onto it. John caught phrases like, "Stupid, useless professors" and "was in my Mind Palace".

John's teammates informed him irately that Sebastian Moran, the Slytherins seeker, had been the one who had pushed John off of his broom. Sherlock fumed for a while due to the fact that all Moran had to do as penance was writing lines.

Greg had been quite right—Madam Pomfrey healed John's ribs and fixed his dislocated arm in no time at all.

"I want to keep you here tonight, just for observation." Madam Pomfrey shook her head in a put-upon way as she fluffed John's pillows unnecessarily. "No sense sending you back out into the hustle and bustle of Hogwarts too soon."

"Quite right. Being among the idiots in the corridors is something that should be postponed for as long as possible. No doubt their incessant questions about the match will add unneeded stress." Sherlock sniffed arrogantly.

Sherlock was at John's bedside, sitting in a comfy chair that he had conjured out of nowhere with his wand. Sherlock's feet were resting on John's bed; he seemed like he intended on staying the night in the hospital wing as well.

"Hm." John responded, prodding his still healing ribs. "Right. Because having to babysit you while I rest is completely stress free."

Sherlock hummed in affirmation, leaning his head back and staring at the ceiling.

"You know," Sherlock said to John abruptly, once Madam Pomfrey had left, "Perhaps I should research ways to put a permanent Shield charm on you during Quidditch games. That way—"

"No, Sherlock." John shook his head at his friend, but he was smiling slightly all the same.

Sherlock crossed his arms and sulked.


	2. Houses and Tables

**Author's Note: This chapter takes place in their second year. Last chapter was probably around fifth year. I'll try to say what age they are in the beginning to assuage confusion!**

Sherlock had a subscription to the Daily Prophet for one reason: keeping up with the interesting deaths in the Wizarding World.

It had become a sort of ritual for him to eagerly scan the Prophet for something _new_ as soon as the post owl delivered it at breakfast. Anything that caught Sherlock's interest would be explained to John later. One of the best things about having a friend, thought Sherlock, was having someone to talk to. Someone who wouldn't call him a freak for being fascinated with murder and the sheer amount of crime wizards were involved in.

After finishing a particularly intriguing article concerning the untimely death of a Ministry worker, Sherlock had hastened over to the Gryffindor table to get John's opinion on the matter. John was always willing to talk to him, even if he was surrounded by all of his Gryffindor friends and Sherlock's topic of conversation was not exactly conducive to someone who wanted to eat their breakfast.

"So, who was the murderer?" John asked with a mouth full of oatmeal after Sherlock had finished explaining the article.

Sherlock frowned at the paper in his hand, "Not enough data."

"You know that the murder weapon was a blunt object but you don't know who killed the guy?"

John had a glint of mirth in his eyes.

It was a somewhat new concept to Sherlock that not all taunting was done in a malicious way. John never taunted Sherlock maliciously.

"Well, I can't make bricks without clay after all." Sherlock responded absentmindedly.

John smiled at Sherlock and bumped his shoulder against Sherlock's companionably, "I'm only taking the mickey; your deductions were as amazing as always."

Sherlock nodded in a self-satisfied way as a warm glow blossomed in his chest. John's compliments had the strangest effect on him. Sherlock decided the warm glow must be happiness.

"Any plans for today, then?" John asked Sherlock as they got up from the table together. Sherlock was glad the professors didn't put up any resistance to Sherlock abandoning the Ravenclaw table to sit with John; after all, Sherlock had no wish to partake in the so-called philosophical discussions of his house.

Sherlock hummed noncommittally to answer John's question. John rolled his eyes at the lack of response. John directed his steps to Gryffindor tower; Sherlock followed without hesitation. Since John had expressed interest in his theories before, Sherlock kept up a running commentary on the potency of certain potions and how these same potions could be used most effectively for clever homicides.

John was a great listener. Before meeting John, Sherlock had relayed his thoughts to his dead great uncle's skull. That brainless cranium, however, could not compare to John's interested expression when Sherlock explained his deductions.

"… the asphodel serves as a catalyst that makes the eternal sleep even more absolute."

John nodded in understanding. They had reached Gryffindor tower. John stared at the Fat Lady blankly for a moment. "Damn." He muttered. "The password changed didn't it?" John asked the Fat Lady.

The Fat Lady nodded, looking amused. Sherlock smirked and glanced at the Fat Lady searchingly.

"The password is 'Murmuration'"

John raised his eyebrow at him as the Fat Lady winked at Sherlock and swung forward to admit them.

"I'll never know how you guess the passwords." John muttered.

Sherlock sat down in one of the woebegone armchairs by the fireplace. "I never guess."

"Yes, you do."

Sherlock smirked and steepled his hands under his chin.

"Just going to make yourself at home, then?" John asked as Sherlock settled himself deeper into the armchair.

"Hm." Sherlock grunted distractedly; he was clearly deep in his Mind Palace.

"Right." John said to himself. "Well, My Housemates should be used to your presence by now."

Sherlock sat at the Gryffindor table so often, and visited the common room so often, he was practically an honorary Gryffindor. John found Sherlock's insistence on following him everywhere endearing. Most, however, were annoyed by John's shadow and made their annoyance quite clear.

John walked up to the boy's dormitories to get his bag; he had to get a start on the Potions essay due on Tuesday. When John came back to the Common Room, Sherlock was gone. John sighed. Sherlock probably thought up some grand plan and had to dash off immediately to enact it.

Shaking his head, John pulled out his parchment and ink and got to work; Sherlock could storm back in at any moment to include John in his plans, and John wanted to be ready.


	3. Summer, First Year

**Disclaimer: This one's really short and sweet. This is right after first year. I do not own these characters and I am not making money off of this.**

A week into the summer holidays and John was already bored. How was he expected to assimilate himself back into the muggle world when he now knew about his powers and his place in the Wizarding World? He had eagerly regaled his mum with everything he had learned and experienced in the past year, and his mum listened with reverence.

"Ah, John. I still can't get over it! My boy—a wizard!"

John blushed a little as his mum kissed him on the forehead.

"You've had a year to get used to the idea— "

"So, you're completely unaffected by magic now, John? A year was enough time for the novelty to wear off?"

John smiled a little bashfully.

"I thought not. I'm sure I will still be amazed that magic exists for years to come." His mum chuckled.

John missed everything about Hogwarts: the sweeping castle grounds, the drafty corridors, his bed in Gryffindor tower, and especially his friends.

Sherlock hadn't said 'goodbye' to John when they left Hogwarts for the summer holidays. John's friend had simply stared at him for a minute, and then he muttered, "I'll write you". After this declaration Sherlock had turned away and disappeared amongst the teeming masses of students exiting the Hogwarts Express.

John eagerly anticipated a letter from Sherlock. Though they had just met in September at the beginning of term, John felt as if he'd known Sherlock all his life.

A few days later, John grew weary of waiting for Sherlock to write and decided to write to Sherlock himself. It was as John sat down with his second-hand quill to write his letter that he heard tapping on the window.

Turning around hurriedly to decipher what made the noise, John saw an elegant barn owl gently tapping at his window, a letter clutched in its claws.

Beaming, John ran to the window and opened it. The barn owl flew in and landed on John's bed, shuffling its feet agitatedly. John took the letter from the owl and it ruffled its feathers, then it soared out of John's still open window gracefully. Happy that he was about to hear from his friend again, John glanced at Sherlock's address on the envelope, written with his friends' signature scrawl. The letter was plain parchment, John turned it around and stared at it for a moment. It had one word on it: 'Bored', written in smudged ink.

John laughed so hard and long his mum came to check on him in concern.


	4. Flying Lessons

**Author's Note: This is set around fourth year. Another relatively short one. I do not own, and I am not making money off of these little tidbits.**

"This is stupid." Sherlock said sullenly.

John looked down at Sherlock from his airborne Cleansweep. Sherlock was glaring at one of the school brooms as though the broomstick had insulted him.

"Come on Sherlock. You promised to let me teach you how to fly!"

"Hm." Sherlock's expression did not change. "When did I promise that?"

John rolled his eyes at his friend's selective memory, "It was a week or so ago; you owed me after Mycroft was looking for you through the Floo Network and I lied to him about where you were. Now come on, get on the broom."

Sherlock practically pouted. "Learning to fly a broomstick will not be helpful in my chosen profession. It is a useless pastime."

"That's a rubbish argument and you know it. I'm sure Aurors use broomsticks all the time."

An arrogant sniff expressed Sherlock's displeasure, " _Consulting_ Auror."

"Fine. Whatever. Get on that broom, Sherlock, or so help me, you won't be allowed to sit at the Gryffindor table."

Sherlock turned a murderous gaze on him. John smiled sweetly down at him from his broomstick.

Grumbling all the while, Sherlock mounted the rickety school broom. With another glare directed at John, Sherlock kicked off from the ground lightly—and shot 20 feet upward.

Sherlock's sullenness changed to abject terror so quickly that John had to stifle a laugh. John tilted his broomstick handle up slightly so that he could rise and be level with Sherlock. Sherlock was clutching his broom handle like a life line with his arms and legs.

Stifling another laugh, John congratulated Sherlock on getting off of the ground.

"Most beginners can't even get the broom to go up." John said.

"Yes, well, I have that part down." Sherlock whispered, eyes on the ground some twenty feet below them.

John felt bad for being amused at Sherlock's fear, but his aloof friend was never afraid, so John felt he should enjoy the occasion as Sherlock was in no real danger.

"Okay, Sherlock, you want to try to do a lap around the pitch?"

Another death glare. "I'd rather get back to the ground."

With a sigh, John leaned slightly, causing his Cleansweep to fly smoothly forward. "Come on, Sherlock. There's no time to learn like the present.

"Bloody useless... stupid..."

Many instances of dark muttering later, Sherlock finally loosened his hold on the broom handle and straightened up. Sherlock furrowed his brow at the handle and leaned forward. Sherlock looked delighted as, in response to his leaning, his broom skidded to meet John's a few feet further away. John did a slow clap to mock his friend playfully.

A glint of mischief in his eyes, John shouted "Race you!", and shot off on his broom like a rocket. Sherlock moved jerkily a few feet at a time as John effortlessly glided around the pitch. John slowed down and hovered at Sherlock's side.

"This is ridiculous." Sherlock said, his face red as a beet.

"Your problem is a lack of confidence. See, you're leaning too tentatively. You have to make each movement deliberate."

"I look simply absurd, John."

John thought he had a point. Sherlock was too tall; his long legs made it look like he was a very sulky bird perched on a thin branch.

"Right. We'll do it slowly. Follow me."

John leaned forward; Sherlock mimicked him reluctantly. Simultaneously, both brooms shot a few feet further.

"Okay. That was good."

"I am not a child that desires praise after every act, John." Sherlock looked pleased despite his words.

"Now, you just have to keep a steady position. Stay exactly as you are to keep going at this pace. If you want to go faster, lean toward your broom more. Do the opposite to slow down."

Sherlock nodded impatiently. They were now gliding slowly around the pitch, Sherlock still moving a little jerkily.

An hour later, Sherlock was flying like a pro. John decided that Sherlock's new-found skill wasn't because of his teaching abilities, it was because of Sherlock's tremendous capacity to understand and learn quickly.

"You could join the Ravenclaw team!" John informed his friend happily.

"Mm. I think not. Team sports are definitely not for me. It would require... interaction."

John scoffed.

John led the both of them in a controlled dive.

Once on the ground, John fixed his wind-tousled hair and glanced at Sherlock's wild curls, even more in disarray after their flying. "So, will you delete flying from your Mind Palace as soon as we get back in the castle?"

Sherlock grunted. "Doubtful. Could be useful."

John grinned in triumph as Sherlock's bright eyes scanned the darkening skies. Sherlock seemed deep in thought. John left his friend to his contemplations as they walked back up to the castle, brooms over their shoulders.

"John," Sherlock said abruptly, "I think I would enjoy further flying lessons. The experience wasn't entirely disagreeable."

"Great," John responded. "Tomorrow we'll practice diving."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's eagerness, and they entered the castle in a silent accord.

"Since you have kindly introduced me to one of your hobbies," Sherlock started slightly sarcastically after they had put away the brooms and entered the Great Hall, "I will introduce you to the joys of complex potion-making."

"I know about potion-making, Sherlock."

"Not this potion-making, John, I assure you. These will be potions of my own design." Sherlock concluded with a worrying smile.

"At least it won't be dull."

"Never." Sherlock replied.

 **Author's Note: In the words of Leonardo Da Vinci, "Once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return".**


	5. Summer, Second Year

**Author's Note: As the title says, this is second year during summer holidays, so technically it is just before third year. Thank you to everyone who has favorited/followed and reviewed this story!**

Sherlock learned the Patronus charm when he was twelve years old. He did it because he was bored. Bored beyond belief. Bored enough to shoot random spells at random objects in Holmes manor and watch the resulting explosions with a semblance of pleasure. He enjoyed this pastime until he was told off by Mycroft and his parents.

"Can't you do something productive for once, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked him with a look of exasperation on his face.

"Can't you do anything besides criticize me, _Mycroft_?" Sherlock reciprocated childishly. Sherlock slammed his bedroom door in Mycroft's face and threw himself onto his bed. Everything was dull. Sherlock wondered if John was as bored as he was.

With nothing else to occupy him he read a book about the theory of Patronus charms. It seemed easy enough.

Sherlock was stretched out on his bed perusing the book on Patronuses and he saw no reason to get up in order the practice the spell, therefore he snatched his wand up from his bedside table where he had thrown it carelessly and held it as the diagram in the book indicated. Holding the book and his wand at the same time quickly became cumbersome; Sherlock levitated the book in front of him as he practiced the wand motions required for the charm.

Waving his wand, Sherlock muttered, "Expecto Patronum."

Nothing happened. Sherlock scowled. Still laying on his back he pointed his wand at the ceiling and said, "Expecto Patronum" clearly.

Not a wisp of vapor emerged.

Sherlock snatched the book out of the air where it was still levitating and scanned the pages in frustration. What was he doing wrong?

Ah. He had forgotten the essential part of a Patronus charm, according to the book: The caster had to think of a happy memory in order to make a proper Patronus.

Though it was tremendously sentimental and childish of him to think so, Sherlock thought that since meeting John at Hogwarts, he had an abundance of happy memories to choose from.

Disregarding his lethargy, Sherlock got up from his bed and held his wand steadily in front of him. A happy memory...

Sherlock remembered spending the night in the restricted section of the library with John; both of them enjoying the adrenaline rush they got when they had to run from Filch, laughing as the caretaker hobbled after them. Sherlock pictured John's reaction when Sherlock first deduced everything about him, how John's "amazing" was the complete opposite of everyone else's responses to having their life story laid out before them by a complete stranger. He remembered how John would walk with Sherlock to class even if the Gryffindors didn't have class with the Ravenclaws. Sherlock sat at the Gryffindor table sometimes and saw John's eyes light up with familiarity when Sherlock greeted him. Sherlock reflected on how he smiled every time he saw John.

Sherlock waved his wand, his mind firmly fixed on those memories. "Expecto Patronum!" He shouted.

A burst of silver from his wand solidified into a swarm of bumblebees. Sherlock tilted his head in bemusement: bees? No matter. He had made a Patronus. The bees multiplied as more happy memories surfaced in Sherlock's mind. Sherlock beamed at his Patronus.

The silver bees bounced and glided around his room, and Sherlock was glad he had found a way to cure his boredom.


	6. The Boy Who Observed

**Author's Note: This is First year. I was putting off writing them meeting for the first time because it's a rather daunting concept. I think it turned out alright, though. Tell me what you think! I own nothing but my plot and my insanity!**

John was nervous enough at the sorting without the incessant muttering coming from a boy next to him. He couldn't even tell what the curly haired boy was saying, but he was looking around at the gathered first-years as if x-raying them.

"Shut it, will you?" John said to the boy with a pleading expression on his face. "I'm already anxious enough!"

The boy glanced at John through the errant black curls covering his calculating eyes.

"Gryffindor." The boy said under his breath. "Definitely Gryffindor. Used to standing up for himself as well as others. Strong moral sense judging by the fact that it took him awhile to ask me to shut up—he didn't want to hurt my feelings—but muttering can get a bit tedious to hear after some time. Brave. Gryffindors are known for their bravery. His left arm was broken once—no twice. Abusive father, clearly, he took most of the blows— "

"What? Are you talking about me?" John stared at the boy.

"Definitely not a Ravenclaw. Hufflepuff couldn't be a fit for this boy because he appreciates danger. I saw him on the train—he stopped a fight between two older students without a thought for himself, even though the two older boys were Slytherins and quite a bit larger than him."

"Are you trying to decide what house I belong to? Are you doing that for all of the students?" John's anxiety about the sorting was temporarily replaced by a sense of awe.

"Yes. Initial deduction stands: Gryffindor."

With that, the dark-haired boy turned back to the crowd of first-years and kept up his quiet monologue.

"Wait, how did you do that? Are you using magic?!" John hadn't seen any magic yet; he was eager to see another wizard's prowess.

"Of course not. This is simple observation." The boy spoke to John without turning around.

"That's amazing." John said truthfully.

The boy's muttering stopped abruptly. He turned his head back to John, his curls flying about wildly.

"Do you think so?"

"Yes, of course!" John responded. "How did you know I broke my arm two times? And how did you know that... that it was my father who did it?"

"I looked." The boy said simply. "That's not what people usually say."

"Well, why not? It's crazy! I've never met anyone who can tell who a person is just by looking at them!"

The boy looked at John as if he had never seen a person properly before. "Want to see some more?" He asked John quietly.

"God, yes." John said eagerly.

Not needing any further invitation, the boy pointed at a first-year standing a couple feet away.

"She's a Slytherin. She has ambition because she's standing at the front of the group. She has also cleverly positioned herself at an angle so as to be seen clearly by the witch calling out the names. Her position doesn't matter, however, the witch is calling the first-years alphabetically.

The boy now pointed his finger at another first-year a little farther away. "He's a Hufflepuff. See, how he is standing close to his twin sister? That indicates an attempt at emotional support. Also, he helped her as well as some other first-years with their trunks as they got off the train, displaying a kindness typical of a Hufflepuff.

"Fantastic." John broke in, shaking his head in amazement.

"Yes. Well." The boy looked bewildered, but he recovered quickly. He pointed again. "Over there— "

"Sherlock Holmes!" Cried the witch reading out the names.

The boy looked at John then walked up to the rickety stool at the front of the room. John watched him go, glad he now knew the boy's name. Sherlock sounded like a wizard's name, John thought.

The calling witch put the frayed sorting hat on Sherlock Holmes' head. It debilitated for a minute or two and John watched Sherlock's expression grow increasingly annoyed with each second that the hat remained silent. Finally, the hat shouted, "Ravenclaw!" and Sherlock took off the old hat impatiently and made his way over to the Ravenclaw table, where the students cheered wildly.

John tried not to notice Sherlock's eyes on him as John waited for his name to be called. It seemed both boys were intrigued by the other.

"John Watson!" The butterflies in John's stomach came back with full force. John took a deep breath and approached the witch who held up the sorting hat.

When she placed the hat on John's head, the brim covered his eyes. John pulled it up and looked out at the sea of students. He met Sherlock's eyes and saw the dark-haired boy mouth the word 'Gryffindor'. John wondered if Sherlock had guessed correctly.

The sorting hat spoke in John's ear. "Your loyalty is frankly alarming. You would do anything for your friends and family, wouldn't you? Lots of courage as well. Hufflepuff or Gryffindor? It all comes down to your ability to cope with trying situations. Are you the type of person to sit quietly by and be moral support? Or do you take part in the action? Ah. The deciding factor is your need for adrenaline. I know exactly what to do with you..."

John gulped as the sorting hat paused. The next word was shouted to the whole hall.

"Gryffindor!"

John closed his eyes and exhaled shakily, feeling his nerves dissipate. He searched for Sherlock in the crowd and saw that he was grinning in triumph.

John got up and took off the hat, handing it to the witch holding the list with a bashful smile.

The Gryffindor table hooted and hollered proudly as John sat down.

Sherlock had been right. He knew John would be sorted into Gryffindor having never met John before. It was astounding.

The feast was scrumptious. John gobbled it down; he had never had a meal so big!

When the students were dismissed, John once again scanned the hall for Sherlock, the boy who _observed._ Johnhad just decided that Sherlock had left when—

"I told you so."

John whirled around and saw Sherlock standing behind him.

"That was amazing."

"Yes, you said that."

"Sorry." John smiled "I can't help it."

"It's fine." Sherlock looked so shocked it was as if he had never received a compliment before.

As the Great Hall emptied around them, Sherlock asked, "You're a muggle-born aren't you."

"Is that a bad thing?" John was desperately seeking confirmation as he had been asked this question a lot: The shopkeepers of Diagon Alley, the students on the train, and his fellow Gryffindors during dinner had inquired as to who his parents were. They had talked to John differently when they found out he was a muggle-born.

Sherlock shrugged. "No. You just don't have a wizard lineage."

John wasn't necessarily reassured, but he was glad Sherlock wasn't mocking him because of his blood status.

Not knowing what else to say, John properly introduced himself. "I know you already know my name, but for what it's worth... I'm John." John held out his hand.

Sherlock stared at John's proffered hand quizzically. But, he eventually took John's hand in his own. "Sherlock."

John suddenly noticed that the rest of the Gryffindors were leaving without him. "I better go."

Sherlock nodded and with a last searching look directed at John, he walked away.

"Sherlock Holmes." John muttered to himself. Then, he turned and followed the rest of the Gryffindors out of the Great Hall and up to what would be his new Common Room.


	7. Mudblood

**Author's Note: This is set around fifth year. Dedicated to my sister—nickname Angel—who has read my stories without knowing it was me** **. Hope you like it! I own nothing but my story and my insanity!**

"We are not going into Honeydukes."

"Why not?"

"Because it is teeming with Hogwarts students."

"We're Hogwarts students, Sherlock."

Sherlock sniffed haughtily. "We don't have to act like it, though."

John shook his head, exasperated.

Since it was a particularly mild spring day in April, they had decided to take advantage of the latest Hogsmeade weekend.

"Fine. Where do you want to go, then? Shrieking Shack?" John pointed at the dilapidated shack at the end of the walk. "Or there's Zonko's."

"Neither."

"Why did you come to Hogsmeade if you don't want to go anywhere?" John said with a laugh. "C'mon. Let's just go to the Three Broomsticks." When Sherlock started to protest John talked over him. "No complaints. You're not offering any suggestions. Let's go."

Sherlock grumbled under his breath but followed John into the pub.

"Two butterbeers, please." John said as he approached the counter.

"I don't want butterbeer." Sherlock said petulantly.

John sighed. "Gonna be difficult today, then?" Sherlock shrugged. "Alright, one butter beer. Cheers."

The Three Broomsticks was crowded with Hogwarts students as well. The pub had a great melting pot of people: witches, wizards, vampires, and hags. All were welcome.

"John! How are you doing, mate?" Greg Lestrade got up from the table he was sitting at with some of his fellow Hufflepuffs to shake John's hand.

"Not bad." John smiled. "Glad term is almost over."

"Sherlock." Greg shook hands with Sherlock. "Still solving the Auror's cases for them through the Prophet?"

"With ease."

Greg laughed. "You'll have to teach me how you do it. OWLs are coming up and Aurors need top grades."

"I didn't know you were studying to be an Auror, Greg." John said.

"Yeah. My dad was an Auror, I want to join the family business."

Sherlock muttered something about dull small talk.

"Yeah, alright, Sherlock, I'll leave."

John and Greg shared a long-suffering shrug.

"See you, guys. John, I'm looking forward to the Quidditch championship—you'll crush Ravenclaw."

Greg went back to his table.

"You didn't have to be rude." John reproached his friend.

"I wasn't rude. It's not my fault he took offense when I denounced humanity at large."

John laughed despite himself.

The pub was packed; John and Sherlock searched in vain for an empty table.

"I'd offer you a seat, Watson, but you might contaminate our table." A nasal voice came from a table in the corner.

Phillip Anderson was seated there with Sally Donovan and Sebastian Moran.

John smiled at them without humor. "Anderson, your insults are a clear sign of your intelligence." John gave him a mock salute and turned away, continuing to search for a table.

Sherlock glared at Anderson but followed.

"And what would a Mudblood know of intelligence?" This comment came from Moran.

Sherlock froze. John turned around to stop the fight before it happened.

"It doesn't matter, Sherlock, let's just leave."

Sherlock's eyes were icy as he faced Moran. "Apologize." Sherlock spoke softly, but his voice was clearly heard by Moran through the noise of the pub. Moran smirked at Donovan and Anderson.

"Sticking up for slime like him, Holmes?" Donovan jeered. "I never thought I'd find a pure blood I didn't like."

Sherlock continued to glare at Moran. "Apologize." He repeated.

"No, I don't think I will. Mudbloods are hardly above the dogs anyhow, the filthy muggle probably can't understand speech."

"Wrong choice." Sherlock said with a malicious smile. His wand was a brown blur as he pulled it out of his pocket and aimed it at Moran's chest.

Anderson and Sally took out their wands as well. Moran simply leaned back and took a gulp of his drink; he looked vaguely amused.

"He's not worth it, Sherlock." John muttered, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder placatingly.

But John knew it was a lost cause: Sherlock had been in a mood even before the Slytherins provoked him.

A jet of red light shot from Sherlock's wand: he was proficient in non-verbal spells.

"Protego!" Anderson shouted.

A little crowd started to gather around them, watching warily.

"There will be no dueling in my pub." Madam Rosmerta shouted from behind the bar. "Settle your differences outside!"

Sherlock ignored her as he aimed another spell at Moran. Moran whipped out his wand and parried the spell.

John sighed and took out his wand as well.

"Is this really necessary, Holmes? Why defend a Mudblood?"

Sherlock's response was a quick movement of his wand that sent another jet of red light in Moran's direction. Moran blocked it easily and gestured to Anderson and Donovan to back up.

So, commenced the duel. No one interfered—not even Madam Rosmerta who stood behind the bar looking dumbstruck.

Moran and Sherlock dueled like professionals in the suddenly silent pub. Sherlock gritted his teeth in determination as he battled fiercely, casting and blocking with equal speed.

Moran didn't miss a trick either: he was eerily quick.

John knew that Moran and Sherlock would never surrender to the other; if Moran lost concentration Sherlock could incapacitate him, so John thought fast.

To distract Moran, John shouted, "Hey, Moran! How long did it take you to convince your friends that you were a pure-blood?"

Moran whipped his head around to look at John, giving Sherlock a chance to hex him.

"Incarcerous!" Nonverbal spells abandoned, Sherlock screamed the spell.

Moran fell to the ground, bound in thick ropes.

Sherlock approached Moran's struggling body and crouched down panting from the duel.

"Now. Apologize."

Moran spit at him. "Never."

Sherlock looked down at Moran disdainfully. "I can think of any number of spells that will make you apologize, 10 of which will cause you immense pain, and three that would earn me a cell in Azkaban. Your choice. Apologize to John, or I choose from my repertoire of spells and you will wish you had never been born."

Greg pushed through to the front of the crowd. "Sherlock, there's a time and a place. I know he's scum but if you murder him you _might_ get expelled."

Greg and John walked forward and pulled Sherlock away from Moran. Sherlock came willingly enough, despite the look of rage on his face.

"Diffindo." John said calmly, pointing his wand at the ropes that bound Moran.

Moran pushed the severed ropes off himself and got up. He beckoned to Anderson and Donovan, who hadn't bothered aiding their friend in the duel, and stormed out of the pub.

Madam Rosmerta marched over and pointed at the door silently, clearly telling them to get out.

Sherlock, John, and Greg obliged.

The three didn't talk until they were a good distance from the pub.

"What'd he do? Did he just attack you?" Greg asked the still fuming Sherlock.

"He called John a Mudblood." Sherlock spat.

Greg looked outraged. "How dare he? That bloody—no wonder you were so livid, Sherlock."

"Look, guys, I'm not a maiden in need of defending, okay?" John said, slightly embarrassed. "I appreciate your... anger on my behalf, but," John shrugged. "I'm used to it."

"You shouldn't have to be used to it. They have no right to insult you." Sherlock said angrily.

"Yeah, John, you're ten times the wizard they are, muggle-born or not." Greg said fiercely.

John looked uncomfortable but grateful. "They don't bother me. It doesn't matter."

"It most certainly matters because you matter. Stop degrading yourself, John, it doesn't become you." Sherlock spoke with finality.

All three were silent after this pronouncement; They walked steadily back to the castle without saying a word.

When they entered the entrance hall, Greg finally spoke, "Sherlock," he waited until Sherlock looked at him, "I would've done the same. Bye guys." And with a meaningful look at John he went down to his common room.

Sherlock was staring at John intensely. "Why are you 'used to it'?" He said, referring to the ridicule over John's blood status.

John smiled ruefully. "Muggle-borns are constantly harassed and told they have dirty blood. It's gotten to the point where it doesn't affect me anymore."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "I didn't...I'm sorry, John, that shouldn't..." Sherlock's face grew determined. "It won't happen anymore. I'll ensure it."

John looked at his friend, amazed. "Thank-you, Sherlock."


	8. Thestrals

**Author's Note: The beginning of fourth year. I had this theory that Sherlock would love thestrals, so this happened. Also, I love thestrals so I wanted an excuse to glorify them.**

Sherlock's response upon hearing about the death of John's uncle, was odd, but not entirely unexpected considering it was Sherlock.

"Excellent." Sherlock said after hearing John's somber news. "We'll have to go to the Forbidden Forest so you can see the thestrals and tell me what they look like."

They were sitting on the Hogwarts Express. It was September 1st, the morning of John and Sherlock's first day of their fourth year at Hogwarts.

John hadn't been very close with his uncle; his mother's brother had only seen John a couple of times and John had no feelings for the man. Still, he accompanied his mother to his uncle's deathbed, and John had seen him give in to the cancer invading his body. This had been over the summer holidays after John's third year at Hogwarts.

John had been sad, of course: the man was his family. The grief faded, however, and John remembered his uncle as the man who couldn't be bothered to forge a proper relationship with his nephew.

Sherlock was waiting for an answer.

"I'm sorry, what? Thestrals?"

"Oh, don't be dull, John, you must know what thestrals are."

John stared at his friend. "I don't think you've realized yet that I only learned about the magical world three years ago. How could I know about—what'd you call them?—thestrals?"

"Your lack of curiosity amazes me. How have you not learned as much as possible about the wizarding world now that you know it exists?"

"I am curious, I just don't want to look through every wizarding book ever made. So, what are thestrals?"

Sherlock's eyes brightened. "They are magnificent creatures with the appearance of a reptilian horse. Being winged, they are immensely fast travelers and have great sense of direction." Sherlock sounded as though he were reciting a textbook.

"Okay. Great. Why does the event of my uncle's death make you want to go see them?" John was still trying to understand what Sherlock was on about this time.

"Ah, yes. You know nothing of thestrals. Thestrals can only be seen by people who have seen death." Sherlock said slowly, as if he was speaking to an exceptionally stupid child.

"Oh." John blinked. "So, uh... you haven't seen them?"

Sherlock looked frustrated. "No. Even if the thestral was represented in a picture I wouldn't be able to see it. A description is all I've seen."

"So, there are thestrals at Hogwarts? You said we would have to go to the Forbidden Forest." John inquired.

Sherlock scoffed at him. "Of course, there are thestrals at Hogwarts. Hogwarts has the largest domesticated herd in all of Great Britain."

"And are thestrals... dangerous?"

Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. "If you provoke them, I suppose. They're gentle creatures normally, but the whole death thing makes people wary for some reason."

"Right."

Sherlock looked around the train compartment forlornly. "This trip is always interminable." He took out his wand and twirled it with his long fingers. "Wizards are useless if travel is this slow."

"You're already bored? We've been on the train for an hour, Sherlock."

Sherlock sank into his seat and leaned his head back. "Boredom has no concept of time."

"Okay, tell me more about the thestrals, it'll take your mind off the tedium of daily life." John said, his every word tinged with sarcasm.

"Not now. It's so bothersome that I can't describe their appearance in detail."

John didn't press him further. No more talk of thestrals pervaded their conversation as the train traveled steadily to Hogwarts.

Sherlock brought the subject up again as they entered the Great Hall with the other students.

"In order to see thestrals you have to see death, yes, but also understand the concept of death and all of the emotions associated with it. Do you understand the concept of death and its connection with your uncle?" Sherlock said all of this in a matter-of-fact voice.

"Uh. Yes, I understand death and grief."

Sherlock nodded like John had just passed a test. "You should have no problem seeing the thestrals, then. We'll go to the Forest tomorrow."

John laughed. "What and skive off class?"

"Naturally." Sherlock said nonchalantly. And with that Sherlock left John to join the Ravenclaw table for the welcoming feast.

John shook his head in a long-suffering way. He complained outwardly, but accompanying Sherlock on every wild thing Sherlock set his mind to was invigorating and John wouldn't change it for the world.

Therefore, when Sherlock barged into the Gryffindor common room the next day during break, pulled John out of the armchair he was in and marched him from the room, John only groaned a little bit.

"Sherlock, I have Defense Against the Dark Arts next and I can't miss it on the first day of term— "

"Inconsequential. You're getting real-world experience with the Dark Arts by venturing into the Forbidden Forest and observing the dangers." Sherlock said innocently.

"This is the perfect time. The Care of Magical Creatures class are in the Forest right now so anyone who sees us go in the Forest will just assume we're part of that class."

"Anyone who knows you would know that you don't take Care of Magical Creatures." John argued.

Sherlock waved his hand flippantly. "Details, details. If you're going to insist on being pedantic about it I can put a Disillusionment charm on us."

"You can do a Disillusionment charm? Never mind, of course you can." John sped up slightly to match his friend's strides. They had been walking as they talked and were now heading down the marble staircase to the entrance hall.

"Thestrals feed at around this time; they'll be spread out and hunting."

"Great. Are we just going to walk out the padlocked front doors?" John tried to be the voice of reason.

Sherlock waved his wand and the large front doors opened in response to Sherlock's nonverbal spell.

"And we're just walking out the front doors." John muttered under his breath.

Sherlock smirked. "Filch owes me a favor. He disbanded most of the security enchantments."

John smiled begrudgingly, "I don't even want to know." He said to prevent Sherlock from explaining exactly why the old caretaker owed Sherlock a favor.

Bring midday, the sun shone overhead brightly as they walked down the sweeping castle grounds to reach the forest. When the canopy of trees was overhead, the midday sun was obscured and it was a lot cooler.

Sherlock talked animatedly, relaying everything he knew about thestrals to John. John enjoyed hearing Sherlock's insight on the wizarding world as Sherlock was always eager to regale John with his theories on everything.

"Thestrals were thought of as a bad omen because they appeared after death. People are idiotic; those who were frightened of the thestral tried to harm it and banish it from their homes. Foolish thing to do, as I said, Thestrals are harmless unless provoked."

John took in all of the information silently, intrigued.

Deeper and deeper into the forest they went, with still no sign of a thestral. They passed a couple of Centaurs, though. The half-human, half-horse hybrids didn't pay them any attention except to stare after them reproachfully.

"...a court case in 1296 offered controversial aid to Thestrals. The case was the aftermath of some stupid wizard injuring himself by drunkenly mistaking a thestral for a horse— "

Sherlock cut himself off when John gasped loudly.

"What is it? Do you see one?"

John walked forward slowly and gaped at something Sherlock couldn't see.

It was indeed a thestral: tall, black, and skeletal, it walked into the clearing.

"Do I have to do the bowing trust thing—like you do with hippogriffs?" John spoke in a whisper.

Sherlock stared around the clearing as if trying to sense the thestral. "No, thestrals are loyal to whoever is kind to them. You can pat it."

John looked back at Sherlock hesitantly, but walked closer to the winged creature nonetheless.

"Hello." John murmured as he laid a gentle hand on the thestral's mane.

The thestral looked at John dolefully with huge, white eyes. It patiently allowed John to slowly stroke its coarse mane.

Sherlock came to John's side. He watched as John seemingly patted thin air.

"Perhaps you could offer a better visual description of thestrals than the textbook can." Not exactly a request, but John took it as one just the same. John started to describe the thestral's appearance for Sherlock's benefit.

"The head is not so much reptilian, it looks like a dragon's head." John inspected the creature further and the thestral stood there looking almost bored. "The wings are absolutely enormous, I bet its wingspan is two times its size. They look like bat wings. I can see every bone in its body because it doesn't look like it has flesh."

Sherlock watched John as he described the creature. "First impression? Frightening? Bad omen?"

John shook his head. "He's magnificent. And he looks lonely."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "You've always been so sentimental."

The thestral rustled its enormous wings and began to walk away, most likely continuing to search for food.

John didn't deny Sherlock's declaration of his sentimental nature; he knew it to be true.

"We should get back to the castle. I might not have missed all of DADA."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in confusion. "DADA?" He questioned the acronym.

"Yes, Defense Against the Dark Arts. You've never called the class by its acronym in all your years at Hogwarts?"

"No, the full name is not that cumbersome. What kind of simple-minded person uses acronyms for proper names?"

"This 'simple-minded' person I suppose."

Bickering good-naturedly, they walked out of the clearing and made their way to the castle, the thestral going the opposite direction back into the dimly lit forest.


	9. Summer, Third Year

**Author's Note: Just a small glimpse into Holmes family life. As the title says, this is the summer holiday after Sherlock's third year. I do not own these characters, I am simply having a bit of fun writing about them.**

Sherlock was experimenting with two potions: he had decided it would be great fun to discover what would happen if a hiccupping potion and The Draught of Living Death were ingested together. A deep sleep coupled with explosive hiccups? Most intriguing.

The Holmes manor had a dungeon of sorts that Sherlock used as a laboratory. His parents had long since stopped asking about Sherlock's wild experimenting; they simply bought the ingredients Sherlock asked for and told him not to injure himself.

Sherlock stirred the contents of his cauldron and added hemlock to the liquid substance.

He sniffed the potion to decipher what it needed. Running his finger along the recipe in his old textbook, he found that he had forgotten the asphodel.

"Ah. Needs a significant amount of powdered asphodel root to ensure potency."

Sherlock scanned the columns of ingredients for the asphodel. Something shifted beside him. Sherlock turned quickly to be met with the sight of the Holmes family house-elf trying in vain to clean up the mess Sherlock was making.

"Get out of it, Simbelmynë! The laboratory is off limits when I'm experimenting."

Simbelmynë the House-elf wrung her hands, clearly itching to clean up the spilled potion and snake scales.

"Yes, Master Sherlock. Simbelmynë was only trying to help. Simbelmynë lives to serve."

"Yes, yes." Sherlock said passively, leaning over his cauldron as he stirred its contents counterclockwise. "Go serve Mycroft, he's too lazy to get anything done himself." Sherlock smirked to himself as he crushed up root of asphodel and added the fine powder to his steaming cauldron.

"Master Sherlock, Master Mycroft is still at work. Simbelmynë would be happy to aid Master Mycroft only Master is currently at the Ministry." Simbelmynë had a high-pitched voice that Sherlock found a hindrance to his thinking.

"Simbelmynë, your help is not needed. Get out."

The house-elf wore a pristine white tea-towel. She bowed low in response to Sherlock's command. "Yes, Master Sherlock. Call Simbelmynë when Master is finished with his potion. Master should not have to clean it up himself."

Bowing every few feet as she left, Simbelmynë retreated up the dungeon steps.

Sherlock scoffed at the house-elf's disgusting servility and began stirring his potion again.

He was just about to combine his two completed potions to inspect whatever delightful reaction may occur when Mycroft apparated into the dungeon with a loud crack.

Sherlock barely looked up from the frothing potions.

"Come to join me, Mycroft?"

"Hardly. You know mother detests the loud sound of apparation on our doorstep. I apparated here so as not to disturb her."

"Oh, how very thoughtful. You are clearly the smart one."

"Yes." Said Mycroft haughtily, ignoring Sherlock's sarcasm.

Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft searchingly, seeing his older brother's three-piece suit and umbrella which he kept his wand in when among muggles.

"Working with muggles again, Mycroft? Though I suppose, with your position in the department it is hard to avoid the grunt work."

Mycroft was seven years Sherlock's senior and he was immensely proud of his new job at the Ministry of Magic.

"The Ministry of Magic would never send a twenty-one-year-old on important jobs, even if that twenty-one-year-old was as well-qualified as I am." Mycroft glared at Sherlock, as Sherlock had brought up a touchy subject. "The Department for the Protection of Muggles and Muggle-Borns deals with essential— "

"I didn't want a lecture, Mycroft." Sherlock watched his combined potions for a reaction, determinedly ignoring his older brother.

Mycroft huffed. "I don't know why I continue attempting conversation with you, Sherlock."

As soon as Mycroft finished his sentence, Sherlock's cauldron concoction exploded with a mighty bang.

Mycroft stifled a laugh. "Shall I summon Simbelmynë? Your experiments are so trivial I'm surprised that you find interest in them." Chuckling to himself, Mycroft walked up the dungeon steps and was given a warm welcome by Mrs. Holmes as he walked into the living room.

Wiping potion out of his eyes, Sherlock looked around at the mess. Luckily, no potion had gotten in his mouth, so no unwanted side effects occurred from the conflicting potions.

Sherlock cursed the wasted experiment as he siphoned up the mess with a wave of his wand.

Another day, another failed experiment. Sherlock scribbled down a few notes on the unpleasant reaction and wrote down some ideas as to how he could fix that explosion snafu. Maybe if he added slightly less asphodel, the witch hazel in the hiccupping potion wouldn't speed up the potency…

After severely blotting his parchment in his effort to write everything down as quickly as the ideas occurred to his overactive brain, Sherlock set down his quill and bounded up the dungeon stairs.

"Sherlock, your brother informed me that you made quite a mess in the dungeon, shall I summon—"

Sherlock interrupted his mother. "Why does everyone insist on calling that infernal house-elf for every problem? I was perfectly capable of siphoning up the mess myself."

Mycroft scoffed at Sherlock. "We all know that you are the main offender in calling Simbelmynë on every whim. You only cleaned up this mess to have an excuse to use magic."

Sherlock didn't dispute the truth of this statement. He thought their house-elf was a great convenience because laziness was one of his inherent qualities.

"Sherlock, you know that you are not allowed to use magic outside of school." Sherlock's mother scolded absentmindedly.

"I will do better to remember that information in the future." No hint of sincerity leached into Sherlock's tone, but his mother didn't bother reprimanding that.

Just then, Sherlock's father entered the room. Sensing further criticisms, Sherlock slipped out of the room to enter his bedroom and write a response to the letter from John he had recently received.

 **Note: Their house-elf's name is a flower from Lord of the Rings. I've always loved that name.**


	10. Exams and Advice

**Author's Note: This turned out a little longer than I expected. I really like it though. Hope you do too! Tell me what you think. I don't own anything but the ideas bouncing around my head and my insanity!**

John was in the library studying for a Care of Magical Creatures exam. The exam was supposedly very difficult so John had been preparing for it for a while.

He sat at a table in the semi-crowded library and read his textbook, _A Thousand Ways You Can Meet Your Death in Northern England If You Don't Know The Weaknesses Of These Magical Creatures_ , under his breath.

John let his mind wander from studying for a minute to ponder the ridiculously long names of his school textbooks. Seriously, every single one of his books had a mouthful of a title and each of his professors referred to the books by their full names. It drove John crazy.

A couple minutes later he forced himself to focus on his book, cursing the author and his convoluted way of describing the malicious monsters of Northern England all the while.

"...he can take his dangerous creatures and shove them right up his— "

"Careful. You know how Madam Pince dislikes strong language in her library."

With a smirk, Sherlock threw his bag onto the table and sat down across from John.

John grunted in greeting, barely looking up from his boring book.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair until the chair balanced solely on its rear legs, he then proceeded to prop his feet up on the table. He looked entirely too comfortable in the hard-backed chair.

John now looked up at his friend. "You're going to fall." John warned.

Sherlock shrugged. "I doubt it. I've calculated the precise angle the chair can be tilted before— "

"Yeah, okay, I believe you." John waved off Sherlock's explanation and tried to find his place in the book again.

Sherlock ruffled his wayward curls and stared around the almost completely silent library until his bright eyes came to rest on the cover of John's book.

"Whatever are you reading that for? Paranoid about the..." Sherlock squinted at the cover. "Homicidal tendencies of different creatures of Northern England?"

John huffed a laugh. "No. I'm studying for our Care of Magical Creatures exam. Professor Kettleburn told us to read through the first couple chapters again to prepare."

"We have an exam in Care of Magical Creatures?" John could tell that Sherlock was trying to remember if he had known about the exam.

John frowned at Sherlock. "How could you forget about the massive exam on dangerous creatures in England that Kettleburn has been hinting at for weeks?"

Sherlock grinned at John apologetically. "Must've deleted it."

"I should have expected that." John said.

"Yes." Sherlock dug in the pocket of his robes and brought out a box of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans—the only candy Sherlock had professed to like, perhaps because of the danger to the taste buds in every bite.

John glanced at the box of jelly-beans, "You know I'm beginning to understand why Madam Pince despises you."

Sherlock put a hand on his chest and put on a mock wounded expression, "Ah, another who despises me. What a shame."

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock popped a jelly-bean in his mouth and then leaned forward, simultaneously pulling his feet off the table so that the front two legs of his chair slammed into the ground.

The occupants of the library looked in their direction: John offered a helpless grimace while Sherlock chewed happily, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

A comfortable silence reigned after that while Sherlock picked at his Bertie Bott's Beans and John turned the pages of his long-titled volume.

The library emptied around them as the sun set. Sherlock had abandoned his jelly-beans and was clearly deep in thought, his bluish-green eyes were unfocused and he stared at a bookshelf in the far corner of the room.

John yawned and stretched and saw that the library was now completely empty except for them and Madam Pince the librarian, who was giving them the evil eye.

"We should leave, Sherlock, the library is going to be closed soon."

With a visible effort, Sherlock broke out of his Mind Palace.

"Yes, alright. I need to test a hypothesis."

"Something dangerous?" John asked as they both got up and collected their things.

Sherlock smirked. "Of course. Coming?"

"Can't. I've got to study." They exited the library; Sherlock gave the still glowering Madam Pince a sarcastic wave.

Sherlock groaned after John's statement. "Please. You're acting as if this exam is life and death."

"This grade _is_ practically life and death. If I don't recognize these creatures in my travels I'm done for."

Sherlock stared at him. "What travels?"

John blushed a little. "I dunno. Wizard travels. Isn't it a wizarding tradition to travel the world after completing school?"

"It might've been a tradition. About a century ago."

"Whatever. I've always wanted to travel. You know, pursue my career, meet foreign wizards..." John's voice trailed off.

"Yes, I had already deemed you a hopeless romantic. Traveling is useless and all wizards are the same no matter where you find them."

Sherlock said as he loosened his bronze and blue Ravenclaw tie.

"Do you have to criticize all of my ideas?" John said, only a tiny bit hurt.

Sherlock nodded. "It's not just your ideas, don't go thinking that you're an exception."

John scoffed. "I know I'm not an exception. I've known you for six years, you degrade everyone." John pushed aside the momentary hurt and relaxed into the banter.

Sherlock hummed affirmatively. "So. Traveling. Where are you going to go after Hogwarts?"

"I thought traveling was useless." John responded with a mischievous glance at Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed. "I'm being polite. You enjoy small-talk. Talk."

"Yeah, I'm not sensing politeness."

Sherlock poked John in the upper arm. "Where are you going after Hogwarts?" He repeated.

John smiled and his eyes looked like they were gazing at something faraway. "Everywhere. You will never be able to convince me that foreign wizards aren't fascinating, so don't even try. I want to learn new Healer techniques from Arabian wizards and visit Quidditch stadiums in Italy and Greece." John spoke animatedly and Sherlock watched him with a somewhat bemused smile.

"And it would be so spectacular to see a dragon in its natural habitat."

Sherlock thought about John's enthusiastic list of things to see around the world as they turned a corridor and found themselves at the portrait of the Fat-Lady.

"Alright. I'll come with you." Sherlock decided.

John laughed. "Who says you're invited?"

Sherlock glared at John. "I did."

John held up his hands placatingly. "Yeah, okay, you can come. At least for part of it."

Sherlock's glare softened into a confused stare. "Why only part of it?"

John looked a little uncomfortable. "You have to promise not to...uh, fly off the handle or anything."

"What is it?" Sherlock said warily.

"I want to go to muggle medical school and enlist in the British army as a surgeon." John said quickly. John waited for the explosion.

Sherlock blinked slowly and narrowed his eyes in contemplation. "Muggle. Medical. School."

John nodded tentatively, "Yes."

"Then with your Muggle degree you plan to... enlist in the British army." Sherlock looked as if he was trying to solve a troubling problem.

"Yes." Now John spoke firmly. "I've wanted to join the army since I was eight—years before I even knew I was a wizard. I've been studying up on Muggle courses during the holidays so I'll be prepared for the coursework at medical school."

"How did I not know that?" Sherlock talked to himself more than John. Sherlock was angry at himself for missing something. "So, you want to enlist in the Muggle army, put yourself in immense peril, and patch up other soldiers without magic when you could have a comfortable job at St. Mungo's as chief Healer?" Sherlock said incredulously. "I knew you were simple minded, but even I couldn't have predicted this."

John bit his lip. "This is why I didn't want to tell you." He said quietly.

"You have never mentioned this before. I wish I had known about your idiotic wish for self-destruction earlier. Stupid, stupid." Sherlock had begun pacing the corridor. The Fat Lady watched them like she was watching her favorite television show.

"It's not idiotic, Sherlock. I want to... to help. I don't know." John hadn't intended to drop this bombshell now, not when he still had a year and a half left at Hogwarts. "Muggles need doctors or Healers more than wizards. Any wizard can just wave their wand and fix themselves. With Muggles, they need professional surgeons and, and physical therapy and all kinds of casts and bandages." John said beseechingly.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair agitatedly. "I'll see you tomorrow." Sherlock said shortly, and he stalked off down the corridor.

John rubbed his eyes with both hands as he turned to face the Fat-Lady. The Fat-Lady tutted sympathetically at him. "He always has such terrible mood-swings." The Fat-Lady remarked.

Not in the mood for a conversation, John simply gave the password and clambered into the common room.

The next day, John took his exam. He was surprised but pleased when he found he could remember all of the information on the exam from his hurried reading the night before. Sherlock, who took the exam calmly, despite his utter lack of any form of studying, sidled up to John as though nothing had happened and began talking John's ear off about something called the Entrail-Expelling curse.

John followed Sherlock's lead and didn't mention the argument they had had last night. Though, it wasn't a consensual argument; it had mostly consisted of Sherlock overreacting and John trying to calm him down.

After Care of Magical Creatures, John had Charms with the Hufflepuffs. John sat with Greg Lestrade at the back of the Charms classroom and talked to the patient Hufflepuff about Sherlock's reaction to John's career aspirations.

"...When I told him that I was going to enlist in the British army as a Muggle surgeon he nearly had a conniption. I don't know what his deal was. I mean, I expected him to freak out over the whole working solely for Muggles and turning my back on the Wizarding world thing, but he didn't freak out like I expected him to." John waved his wand, halfheartedly attempting their charm for the day. Nothing happened. "He was... almost frantic. He started babbling about my personal safety. Since when has he ever cared about that?" John asked Greg.

Greg effortlessly executed the charm as he thought how to answer John's question, a flock of birds flew out of his wand.

"Whoa. I didn't expect that to work."

John and Greg watched the birds flap around the room for a moment.

"I think Sherlock was trying to show you how much he cared. He's just... not that good at expressing emotion." Greg finally responded.

"Sherlock was trying to show me how much he cared by calling my dreams of joining the Muggle army idiotic?" John had trouble believing that somehow.

"Of course. That's a typical Sherlock response to experiencing a large surge of protectiveness for his only friend. I think he was very anxiously contemplating you being in the Muggle army and possibly getting injured and his thoughts got all jumbled. He insulted you and demeaned your career choices when what he wanted to do was tell you how worried he was about you." Greg said, displaying one of the inherent traits of a Hufflepuff: thoughtful advice.

John sighed. "I didn't even think about that. He was still overreacting, though."

Greg shrugged noncommittally. "Maybe. Has he talked to you about it since?"

John shook his head. "No. He's acting as if he didn't overreact over my life choices. I suppose that's better than confronting me and forcing me to change my career."

"I don't think you told anyone about this desire of yours. We're all under the impression that you want to be a Healer."

"I still want to be a Healer. I just want to experience life as a Muggle surgeon first. It was my only choice when I was ten years old." John explained.

Greg, apparently not having a response to that, said "Avis!", and more birds sprung from his wand. Greg beamed at them. "That's bloody brilliant. First time I've mastered a spell on the first day."

The bell rang singling the end of Charms class. Everyone scrambled for their bags and books.

John put his wand away and collected his books as well.

Greg clapped John on the shoulder. "Don't worry, John. Sherlock just wants what's best for you."

"Sometimes I think Sherlock just wants what's best for him."

Greg chuckled. "Yeah, that too, of course. See you, John." Greg left.

The rest of John's day passed without incident. He thought about Greg's advice and wondered what he should tell Sherlock to reassure him.

John didn't have to approach Sherlock however, Sherlock confronted him in the Great Hall during dinner.

Sherlock sat down beside John heavily and pushed one of the golden plates away from himself with distaste.

"I have one question." Sherlock said simply.

"Just one?" John said, smiling at his friend.

Sherlock glanced at him. "Yes. Are you at least going to take your wand with you to Afghanistan or Iraq or whatever godforsaken place the Muggle army decides to send you?"

John heard the anxiety in Sherlock's voice. John nodded seriously.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I?"

Sherlock continued, "And you promise to apparate out of any situation if you feel threatened?"

"I don't know about that. You know what an adrenaline junkie I am."

Sherlock gave him a dirty look. "John."

"Okay, Okay, I promise."

Looking mildly appeased, Sherlock nodded with finality and got up.

"And I'll come back as well." John said, looking earnestly at Sherlock. "I don't plan to stay in the Muggle army my whole life."

Sherlock stared at John for a minute. "You'd better come back. I'd be lost without a Healer by my side, especially in my dangerous profession." With this candid statement, Sherlock smiled and left.

John, feeling as though a great weight of indecision and guilt had left his shoulders after telling the truth about his future plans, continued eating his dinner with pleasure.


	11. Consulting Centaurs

**Author's Note: Short and plotless. Hope you like it, though! Tell me what you think. I own nothing and will continue to own nothing. This one spaced itself weirdly at the end—I don't know why.**

John woke up when a pillow was thrown at his head. He groaned and turned around, burying his face in his pillow. This attempt to go back to sleep was futile as persistent fingers started to prod John's side.

"John. John! The game is on!"

A whisper accompanied the prodding; John turned and squinted at his friend in the dim light. His voice hoarse with sleep, John whispered back, "'The game is on?' Is that your catch phrase now?"

"It has always been my 'catch phrase', as you deem it, you just weren't listening the previous times I informed you the game was on." Sherlock's blue-green eyes gleamed in the darkness.

John sat up, rubbing his eyes and forlornly reflecting on all of the other nights where Sherlock woke him up from deep and blessed sleep.

"Come on, John! This is important!" Sherlock whined.

"Alright, alright. I'm coming." It didn't take much to get John to comply; at this point, arguing with Sherlock was pointless.

John pushed back his covers and reached for his trainers under his bed.

"What's so urgent that you're wide awake at," John squinted at his watch, "3:00 in the morning." John groaned again; Sherlock's "emergencies" never occurred at a reasonable time.

"I need to consult the Centaurs in the Forest."

John blinked slowly, still waking up. "Consult the Centaurs." He repeated. "And this needs to happen now because..." John waited for an explanation.

Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently. He was fully dressed in a button-down shirt and trousers, as if he was heading to a formal dinner, not going to tromp through the Forest. Since it was Saturday, he didn't need to wear his sweeping, black school robes.

"The Centaurs are at their most insightful and active in the early morning." He turned and began rummaging in John's trunk, eventually throwing a pair of John's trousers at him. "Get dressed. There's no time to lose."

John rubbed his eyes. "Why now, Sherlock? What could you possibly want from the Centaurs? This is random even for you." Emitting his third groan of the night, John lay back onto his bed and put an arm over his tired eyes.

With a restless sigh, Sherlock explained, "Whilst roaming my Mind Palace I noticed a woeful misrepresentation of Centaur lore and theories. Well I obviously can't have any ignorance over any creatures; no matter how trivial the Centaurs beliefs seem on the surface, their ideas may prove essential in the future." Sherlock stepped forward and pulled John off his bed, putting the pair of trousers in John's reluctant hands. "Now get dressed. Hogwarts has a large herd of Centaurs to consult at leisure, hence our nightly trip."

Putting on the trousers, John wondered how his life had become so insane. "I don't think the Centaurs will take kindly to your flippant regard of their race."

"And that's why I'm bringing you. Your... diplomacy skills far exceed mine. You'll do the talking, so we are not trampled." Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

John stood and put on a sweatshirt. After a moment's debate he pocketed his wand. "You're a nuisance, you know that?" He said to Sherlock.

"You like me anyway." Sherlock responded cheekily. "Come on, Centaurs await."

The castle was quiet and still. John had long since stopped worrying about being caught during an excursion in the middle of the night: Sherlock seemed to know what professors were patrolling where and they avoided these places easily.

Outside it was chilly; November had just begun. John shivered and crossed his arms against the wind-chill as they traveled across the dewy front lawns.

Within the trees of the Forbidden Forest, John remembered the first time he had gone in there—at eleven—and how nervous he had been. Three years later, John entered the Forest without a hint of anxiety, after all, the two of them had practically made the Forbidden Forest their second home throughout their years at Hogwarts.

Though initially peeved at the intrusion into the Forest by a couple of fourteen-year-olds, the Centaurs became quite flattered when they understood why the two of them had come.

John obliged to Sherlock's wishes and talked calmly and respectfully to the Centaurs about Sherlock's need for information. As John talked, a multitude of Centaurs gathered around them. He continued to talk calmly despite the intimidating audience.

"So, if you wouldn't mind sharing some of your great... theories. We-well he would be grateful." John finished rather lamely. The gathered Centaurs stared at John and Sherlock placidly. John took a deep breath to calm the rising butterflies in his stomach and Sherlock stared around unimpressed.

"It is humbling to know that some beings appreciate the subtle intricacies of Centaur-lore. Please, sit down, I shall relate to you the main points of our creed." Said a majestic looking centaur with flowing brown locks. With the tall creature's words, John's nerves dissipated and he backed out of the group and stood out of sight as the Centaur began to regale Sherlock with stories.

John sat against a tree yawning and longing for his bed. Sherlock listened attentively to what the Centaur had to say, but John could tell it wasn't to his liking.

John silently prayed that Sherlock wouldn't say or do anything to offend the Centaur—he was too tired to run away from a herd of Centaurs angered on behalf of their kind.

Around 5:00 in the morning, John was shaken awake to be met with the sight of a clearing devoid of half-horse, half-man creatures and Sherlock's bright eyes.

"Sufficiently enriched with Centaur-lore?" John inquired as he stretched his aching muscles; trees are not good pillows.

Sherlock, squatting next to him with an air of annoyance, answered with a blunt statement, "It was utter tripe. Star-gazing and herb burning. Ridiculous."

John rubbed his eyes. "Great. I'm so glad I was rudely woken up in the middle of the night to talk to Centaurs only to find out their beliefs are rubbish." John said sarcastically.

Sherlock harrumphed. "I knew the Centaurs' ideas were rubbish before we came here, but I thought because I didn't have a comprehensive understanding of them, _some_ information would be useful to me."

"Yes, because countless prophecies of war sound essential to crime-work." John deadpanned.

Sherlock scowled at him. John just sighed in response. "Come on, let's get up to the Great Hall. I have Quidditch practice at 9:00." John said.

And they made their way back up to the castle. John wondered if he would be able to stay awake during Quidditch practice.


	12. Summer, Fourth Year

**Author's Note: After fourth year. This one turned out longer than I expected it. Hope you like this one! Tell me what you liked or what I need to fix. I don't own anything that looks familiar.**

"My parents want to meet you." Sherlock said one day during dinner in the Great Hall.

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock as he chewed his pork chop. "Why?" John said once his mouth was empty.

Sherlock sipped at a glass of pumpkin juice and grimaced. "They said something about wanting to make the acquaintance of the only friend I've had in..." Sherlock thought for a moment. "Ever."

Sherlock sniffed at his pumpkin juice before pushing it away decidedly. "I think my parents want to see if you are, in fact, real."

John felt absurdly touched. "Okay." He said with a smile. "It'd be interesting to meet the people who raised you."

Sherlock glanced at him. "Interesting in what way." Sherlock asked.

John shrugged as he spooned some mashed potatoes into his mouth. "Well, meeting any wizards who have such an impressive lineage of pure blood would be interesting. Meeting Mr. and Mrs. Holmes will enlighten me as to your childhood." John said, teasing his friend.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm sure it'll be a riveting experience for you."

A couple months later, term was over for the year, and Sherlock brought up the topic of John meeting the rest of the Holmes family again.

"You're meeting my parents this July." Sherlock entered John's dormitory where John was gathering his belongings to pack for the journey home.

"Am I? Has our relationship progressed to meeting the parents already?" John joked.

Sherlock ignored John's quip. "Transportation has already been arranged." Sherlock stood by John's window and gazed out at the grounds.

John paused in the act of packing his trunk, his Quidditch robes in one hand and a pair of socks in the other. "Transportation? That's right, how am I getting to your house?"

John just realized he hadn't asked before. He was rather excited to finally get to see Sherlock's house.

Sherlock responded laconically, "Apparition."

"Apparition. Great." John said absentmindedly as he stuffed his robes and socks into his already crammed trunk.

As he reached for his pile of school books and searched in vain for an empty space to fit them, John realized— "Wait a minute. I don't know how to apparate. How am I supposed to get to your house by apparating?"

"Don't be an idiot, John. Mycroft is going to bring you by Side-Along Apparition."

"Oh. Okay." John said, abashed.

John hoped his mother wouldn't mind the sudden appearance of a pretentious pure-blood wizard at their house. He'd met Mycroft before. Sherlock's older brother occasionally stalked the two of them through the Floo network.

Sherlock smirked. "See you in July." He said, and then swept from the room.

"See you." John said back and resumed packing his trunk.

Come July, John found himself staring up a long walkway at a gigantic mansion surrounded by pristine lawns.

Still reeling from the uncomfortable experience of apparition, John had to blink a couple times to take in Holmes manor.

He didn't know what he was expecting. In hindsight, he should've realized the Holmes family would live in the biggest, most extravagant mansion possible.

John followed Mycroft up the twisting walkway gaping at the mansions large windows and pale blue walls.

"Try not to reveal your Muggle-born status too obviously, Mr. Watson." Mycroft said with an air of condescension. "My mother invited you for reasons of her own. If you do anything to offend her, I will make sure you live to regret it."

John winced. Mycroft was clearly a mummy's boy.

John suddenly grew nervous. What if Sherlock's parents were the bigoted jerks that most purebloods were made out to be? If they were insulted by Muggle-borns, then John was in for a world of hostility.

Mycroft rang the bell with a long finger. The door was opened by a tiny house-elf wrapped in a tea-towel.

"Hello, Master Mycroft. Please wipe your feet before entering. Mistress Holmes is expecting you and young Mr. Watson." The elf spoke shrilly.

John beamed at the elf—he had never seen one in person before—and the elf looked concerned for his sanity.

"Mr. Watson, please wipe your feet before you enter." The elf repeated.

They did as the elf bid and stepped inside.

John shook his head in wonder as he gazed around the entry way, which was as spectacular as the outside promised it would be.

"Simbelmynë! Where are those quills?" Shouted a familiar voice from the top of the spiral staircase dominating the hall.

John turned his head in the direction of the voice and smiled at the sight of Sherlock in his rumpled dressing gown and pajamas standing at the top of the staircase.

"Simbelmynë is sorry, Master Sherlock, your request is coming." Said the elf in response to Sherlock's imperious demand.

Mycroft followed the tottering elf down the polished wood hallway after a last warning to John to be on his best behavior.

Sherlock rolled his eyes—John could see the exaggerated eye-roll from his position in the entry way—and then his bright eyes wandered to the front door.

Sherlock's face lit up when he saw John.

"Shocked by the excessive manor?" Sherlock said loud enough for John to hear.

"Quite." John replied, still grinning up at his friend.

Sherlock bounded down the stairs.

"How was traveling with Mycroft, then?" Sherlock asked.

John shrugged. "Apparition was very uncomfortable. So was Mycroft's company."

Sherlock chuckled.

"Did he give you the speech about not offending Mummy?" Sherlock said once his chuckles subsided.

"Multiple times." John sighed as he gazed around the manor.

The two of them sank into the easy banter as naturally as they always did; they seemed to pick up right where they left off.

Sherlock cocked his head like a dog hearing a suspicious sound. "They're busy in the living room. C'mon." He said and beckoned John up the stairs.

John followed without asking any questions.

Sherlock led John to his bedroom at the end of the wide hall at the top of the staircase.

Sherlock's room looked as though a whirlwind hit it—John wasn't surprised in the least to see the chaos. For someone who had their mind arranged in the epitome of organization, Sherlock was not particular about cleanliness outside of his mind.

Parchment covered in Sherlock's intricate scrawl lined every surface and there was an insane abundance of every kind of book stacked haphazardly around the room.

Sherlock immediately walked towards a simmering cauldron sitting by the open window. He sniffed its contents then prodded the concoction within with his wand. "Needs to be stirred." Sherlock said under his breath. With a wave of his wand, the cauldron began stirring itself.

With that completed, Sherlock threw himself onto his unmade bed.

John, amused, leaned against the wall and read over some of the sheaves of parchment on the crowded desk.

"Mother had the House-elf prepare a four-course dinner for your arrival." Sherlock said with a scoff.

John finished reading some of Sherlock's notes on the proper administration of poisons and furrowed his brow.

"Why are we up here, Sherlock? Aren't I supposed to be downstairs making the acquaintance of your parents?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Mother can wait. Besides your 'rudeness'" Sherlock did air quotes, "Will give Mycroft something else to complain about rather than the dullards at his job."

"Well, I'm glad I'm making a good first impression." John said sarcastically. "Your mum's probably wondering where I am."

"I doubt it. She'll be so busy making sure everything is perfect for your stay, she'll forget you're even here." Sherlock said languidly.

John laughed. "My mum's like that too."

"Oh." Sherlock said abruptly. "I forgot to tell you, my mother doesn't know you're a Muggle-born."

John sputtered. "What? Why not? Mycroft knows, how does your mum not know?" Butterflies erupted in John's stomach. What if Mummy Holmes had only invited him over because she thought he was a respectable half-blood or even a pure-blood? Would they banish him from the premises when they found out his parents were Muggles?

Sherlock sat up and ruffled his unruly curls nonchalantly. "I dunno. I guess I just never got around to telling her. I don't see your Muggle-born status as important."

"I know you don't... will your parents?"

"Undoubtedly." Sherlock said.

Sherlock must've seen the panic in John's eyes because he quickly attempted to reassure him.

"It'll be fine. I'll assuage any of my mother's doubts about Muggle-borns with comments on your good character." Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"So, she thinks Muggle-borns are scum?" John said, feeling vaguely nauseous.

Sherlock stared at him. "You're not scum, John."

"Yeah, but if your mum thinks Muggle-borns are..." John trailed off uncertainly.

"My mother is just uncomfortable around Muggle-borns. They scare her." Sherlock said, still looking at John to gauge his reaction. "It's my father that's the problem. He... despises those of Muggle descent." Sherlock said the last part quietly, as if softening the blow.

John swallowed. "Great. Perfect."

"It'll be fine." Sherlock repeated. "Just don't tell them."

John shook his head. "I don't like hiding. I'm not going to pretend to be someone else to please them."

At that moment there came a voice from the doorway.

"Master Sherlock? Mr. Watson? It is time for dinner. Mistress Holmes expects you downstairs." Said Simbelmynë the House-elf.

"We're coming." Sherlock told her, getting off his bed.

Sherlock looked at John again. "Stop worrying. Mother will be suspicious if you look like you've just been given a death sentence." Sherlock said.

John tried to rearrange his face into a calm and collected expression.

The two of them went downstairs without saying any more. John tried to tell himself he was overreacting. Why was being a Muggle-born such a big deal anyway? Why was pure-blood the only type that was acceptable? John decided that blood in the wizarding world had an unneeded stigma.

Back downstairs, Sherlock and John walked down the hallway to the luxurious dining room.

"Sherlock, you're so incompetent." Hissed Mycroft as they entered the dining area. "You're still in your pajamas. Mother prepared an exquisite dinner, the least you can do is get dressed."

"Mother prepared nothing." Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft glared at Sherlock and John smirked at the childish expression on Mycroft's young adult face.

Mycroft shifted his gaze to John. "I've done you a favor, John. I haven't told my parents of your unfortunate blood status. You should be showering me with gratitude." Mycroft told John regally.

"I am so grateful you want me to hide who I am. However, can I express my tremendous gratitude?" John said dryly, looking Mycroft directly in the eyes.

Mycroft's face pinched in anger as Sherlock laughed at John's sarcasm.

Mrs. Holmes swept into the room unannounced, shouting instructions over her shoulder, "Simbelmynë, do make sure the soup is the proper temperature when you bring it out. All four courses had better be perfect."

"Yes, Mistress Holmes."

A look of satisfaction on her face, Mrs. Holmes gazed around the dining room until her eyes settled on the one person she didn't know. Her pretty face lit up with a wide smile and John smiled a tad nervously back.

Mrs. Holmes walked toward John and took him warmly by the hand. "So, this is John Watson. I must say, we haven't heard much about you—Sherlock is remarkably close-mouthed about things that are important to him—but once we eventually got wind of Sherlock's new friend we decided we had to meet you."

John nodded politely. "It's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Holmes."

"Oh, call me Wanda. We're all friends here."

John wondered if she'd still think that if she asked about his parents.

"Sherlock," Wanda Holmes admonished, turning her blue-eyed gaze on her youngest son. "Why aren't you dressed? Your friend will think you have no manners."

"Don't worry, mother, I'm sure John's accepted my lack of manners the minute he met me." Sherlock said.

John smirked: that was true.

"Nevertheless, go make yourself presentable. Your father will be home any minute, and then we can start dinner." Wanda Holmes said to Sherlock.

Ah, his father, John thought. His father the Muggle hater. John's nervous feeling intensified.

Sherlock left the room, looking back at John searchingly for a moment.

Wanda Holmes looked John over as if making sure he was up to her high standards. John straightened his posture self-consciously.

Wanda Holmes smiled easily and told John to sit down and make himself comfortable.

"This is Mycroft, John. He's my oldest and very good company." Said Wanda Holmes, a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft beamed proudly at the praise.

"You two get acquainted, I am going to see what that house-elf is up to." Wanda Holmes said, leaving the room.

"Step one complete." John muttered, referring to his clearing of the first obstacle, meeting Mrs. Holmes. Mr. Holmes was next.

"Has Sherlock told you our father loathes Muggle-borns?" Mycroft said loftily.

"Did I do something to you, Mycroft? Why are you suddenly against me?" John said.

"Ignore him, John. He's like that to everyone." Sherlock's voice came from the hallway. Sherlock smiled at Mycroft with fake politeness, "Except for Mummy, of course."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "I don't know why I agreed to this dinner."

"It's not like you have anything else to do." Sherlock said, pulling out a chair and sitting at the dinner table.

"For your information, I could be doing any number of things for my department at the Ministry." Mycroft said.

"I was aware you had a mundane job to go to, I meant something of importance."

Mycroft let this comment slide; John knew responding to all of Sherlock's comments could get a bit tiresome after a while.

Mr. Holmes arrived from work without fanfare about ten minutes later.

The five of them sat around the large table and waited for the first course, which Simbelmynë brought out in a large tureen.

John had taken a seat between Sherlock and Mycroft; better to sit between two people who bickered over his head constantly than sit by Mr. or Mrs. Holmes, either of which could turn on him at any moment.

"Mycroft tells me you're studying to be a Healer?" Said Mr. Holmes to John.

"Ah, yes." John said rather lamely.

"You'll need top OWL grades for that job. Potions and Charms and all. Are you sure you're prepared for that?"

John felt as if he were being interrogated. "Yes, sir. I take my studies very seriously." John said.

Wanda Holmes chimed in, "With Sherlock as a friend, I'm surprised you get any studying done at all." She finished with a tinkle of laughter.

John laughed nervously.

Sherlock wasn't eating. He sat and poked at bits of carrot in the soup as Mr. and Mrs. Holmes continued to ask John questions about his future plans.

Dinner continued with the suffocating slowness all awkward situations seemed to hold. No one inquired about John's parents and John thought the butterflies in his stomach were about to kill him with anxiety.

John looked over at Sherlock as conversation turned to Mycroft's job—Mycroft began boasting with pride—and made a nonverbal plea to his friend.

 _I need to tell them,_ John communicated silently. _I can't take this anymore._

Sherlock knit his brow and John translated his expression: _If we tell them you are Muggle-born you will lose any respect they may have acquired for you._

John shrugged minutely: _I don't want to hide. This huge lie of omission feels like I'm hiding._

Sherlock arranges his face into an expression that John took as: _Good luck._

And so, John took the dive. He cleared his throat so that all conversation ceased. John realized dimly that he was throwing himself into possible danger just because he felt like he was hiding.

"I don't know if Sherlock told you my parent's professions?" John began with bravado.

Wanda Holmes gave John a radiant smile. "Well, no. Like I said, Sherlock hasn't told us anything about you." She said.

John swallowed as his heart tried to escape through his throat. Now or never. No more hiding who he was. Not even for Mrs. Muggle-borns-scare-me and Mr. Muggle-borns-are-scum Holmes.

"My mum is a nurse. She works at a hospital in central London. My dad worked as a bank teller before he was jailed." John said.

Sherlock was looking down at his plate. Mycroft looked faintly shocked. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes looked confused.

"A nurse?" Said Wanda Holmes. "That's the term for a Muggle caregiver... your mum isn't... You have a witch mother, don't you?"

John shook his head.

Mr. Holmes put down the bread roll he had been about to butter. "You mean to say that your mother is a Muggle." It wasn't a question.

John looked Mr. Holmes in the eyes. "She always has been."

Wanda Holmes looked from her husband, to John, and back again.

Mycroft speculatively watched his parents.

Mr. Holmes looked as though he was fighting an internal battle. Wanda Holmes put a hand on his arm.

"Well... that's alright. I have many friends who are half-blood. There's no shame in that." Wanda Holmes said.

"I guess I should make this clearer." John said, grateful his voice didn't shake. "I don't want to beat around the bush because I don't think my blood is something to be ashamed of."

Wanda Holmes looked nervous. Mr. Holmes had warning in his eyes. Mycroft kept his expression curiously blank. Sherlock was staring at John with complete focus.

John took in the expressions of the Holmes family and kept his expression calm. "Both of my parents are Muggles. There is not a speck of magic blood in either of them." With this admission, John felt as though the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. There was silence in the room.

Despite his anxiety of the past, John felt a perverse pressure in seeing Mr. Holmes' face turn beet red. "Did you know about this when you invited him?" Mr. Holmes asked his wife.

Wanda Holmes shook her head rapidly. "I never dreamed it. I reasoned that Sherlock wouldn't dare befriend a Mudblood."

Mr. Holmes turned his eyes on his youngest son. "How dare you stoop to talk to someone with dirty blood. You know of the prestige of our family. It has been untainted by Muggle-blood for generations before you were born."

Sherlock scoffed. "Pure-bloods say their blood is untainted, but they fear marrying muggles so much that the insufferable bigots marry their own cousins." He said savagely.

"Leave the table." Mr. Holmes said furiously.

"No, I don't think so. I fancy pudding." Sherlock responded. John smirked even though he knew the situation was quite serious.

"Leave." Mr. Holmes repeated. "And take your filthy friend with you."

"Shut up about John." Sherlock told his father coldly. Mrs. Holmes looked scandalized and she put a manicured hand on her chest. "He has been nothing but polite to the two of you, though both of you have been disgustingly condescending."

"Sherlock, don't defend him. You embarrass yourself." whispered Wanda Holmes, who just ten minutes ago had doted on John and his manners.

"I'd defend John with my life." Sherlock said simply. John opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again; he was rather touched.

"This dinner is over. Mycroft, you're going to take the Muggle home." Mr. Holmes pushed back his chair and got up from the table. Wanda Holmes couldn't look John in the eye.

Mycroft got up from the table slower than his father. "Come on, John. I will take you home."

John stood up, smiled at Wanda Holmes who was fiddling with her fork, and said, "Thank you for dinner. It was delicious." Then, Mycroft, Sherlock, and John walked out of the dining room.

Back in the entry way, Sherlock scowled at John and crossed his arms.

John shrugged at his friend. "It was worth it. You may not think so, but I can't stand hiding."

"So, you've said." Sherlock muttered. "They're going to try to make me sever all ties with you."

"Are you going to?" John asked, knowing the answer.

"What kind of question is that?" Sherlock said, rolling his eyes at John.

John smiled. "Thanks."

Simbelmynë came down the hallway, "Master Sherlock? I am to escort you to your room." She said shrilly.

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to say something else to John, but he didn't. "Bye." Sherlock said, and followed Simbelmynë up the spiral staircase.

Mycroft watched Sherlock walk up the stairs resignedly, then spoke quietly, as if he feared retribution if his parents heard him talking to John. "I am sorry, John. That was unfair. For what it is worth, I am willing to ignore your blood status because you have given Sherlock your friendship, and it has made him happier than I've ever seen him before." Mycroft words were humble.

"That means a lot, Mycroft." John said. The two of them had reached an understanding.

The two of them exited the manor and walked down the winding path, no longer talking of the incident, but discussing the kind of pay Healers received, and other topics of little importance.

John thought there was a certain amount of truth in the phrase, 'Mudblood and proud'.


	13. Summer, Fifth Year

**Author's Note: Obviously after fifth year. Series of letters between John and Sherlock during the summer. I had fun writing this chapter! Tell me what you think. I do not own anything, sadly.**

John,

My copy of _Notorious Serial Killers of the Wizarding World_ is still in your possession. In hindsight, entrusting one of my books to you, knowing of your poor memory, was my fallacy. Return it with my owl.

Sherlock.

Dear Sherlock,

Jesus. Our first correspondence in a month and all you say is, 'return my book'. I should've expected it, though; you're not one for small talk or casual letter-writing. I'm doing well, thank you for asking. Your precious book is on the way. Kind of a strange read, I can see why you like it. Did you see that one story with the axe-murderer who never laid a finger on an axe? He just levitated each one and brought them down on his victims' head with a flick of his wand. Some people should not have magical powers.

Anyway, I hope Mycroft isn't bothering you too much.

John.

Dear John,

Mycroft is the constant bane of my existence. The axe-murderer was what stood out to you? Personally, I thought the man who became an Animagus just so he could prove that a frog could kill someone was rather remarkable. The axe-murderer's schemes were uninspired. It seems I am going against your theory that I am averse to 'casual letter-writing'. However, with a lack of interesting happenings to distract me at The Manor, I am left with no other option. To close, in your amateur Healer's opinion, if I wanted to experiment with slow-acting venoms, what would be the best way to go about such a task with minimum harm to my person?

Sherlock.

Dear Sherlock,

Don't. Just don't. Slow-acting venoms are still venoms and quite dangerous. If I find out you've been trying out different venoms just to determine their potency or their ability to make you severely ill, I will hunt you down and injure you more than the bloody venoms managed to. On a lighter note, this 'amateur Healer' just received his O.W.L results. Before you tear me down with your ten Outstanding O. , I'm going to revel in my three Outstanding O. and seven other passing O. . Now, all I have to worry about are my N.E. —Healers have to be at N.E.W.T level in about six subjects—and that's two years away. For the last time: Don't. Experiment. With. Venom.

John.

Dear John,

Advice heard and deleted. Experiment was scrapped anyway—too many unstable factors. Let me guess: you received an Outstanding in Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Herbology? I expected as much. Is this one of those situations wherein I am supposed to offer a congratulatory message? My O.W.L results came not long ago as well. Nine Outstandings. One Exceeds Expectations in Care of Magical Creatures. The class you convinced me to take. Saying, "It'll be fun". Well, learning about less than fascinating creatures was distinctly not fun, and I blame you for my subpar O.W.L. score in that class. Mycroft has been insufferable since he saw my O.W.L. results. Really, his derision regarding my Care of Magical Creatures grade is childish and unfair. From now on, I do not plan to take any courses that are superfluous. If the course has no bearing on my chosen profession, I will not consider it.

Sherlock.

Dear Sherlock,

Every time I think that your brother couldn't go any lower, he still manages to surprise me. He's seriously mocking your near flawless O.W.L. report? Tell Mycroft from me he's a git. Sorry about Care of Magical Creatures. Not that Exceeds Expectations is a bad grade—I got four of those. You can't say that class wasn't fun, though, we had a blast. Going into the Forest every other day and learning how to feed fiery salamanders? You're just sore because Professor Kettleburn made your life hell after you blew up his stock of Flobberworms.

John.

Dear John,

Grudgingly, I agree. The first couple weeks of Care of Magical Creatures were enjoyable. That Flobberworm lesson was unbearably dull, however, so I was completely justified in ending the lesson with a bang. The only complaints were from Kettleburn. And you, of course. Most of my actions are followed by a reprimand from you.

Sherlock.

Dear Sherlock,

Yes, I reprimand you, only because you're a child. Seriously, what sane person thinks: 'this lesson is boring, I should blow it up'? Oh well. I shouldn't harp on the incident too much, it happened more than five months ago. Looking forward to this term? We're in sixth year. That's insane, I can't believe I've gone to Hogwarts for five years. If you'll forgive me some ridiculous sentiment, I don't think my Hogwarts experience would've been nearly as fun (or dangerous) if I hadn't met you. So, yeah, thanks.

John.

Dear John,

Your sentiments are reciprocated.

Sherlock.


	14. A Study in Patronuses

**Author's Note: Written because my favorite fanfics are complete fluff. This is just some deductions and talking and Hogwarts domesticity. Set in sixth year. Tell me what you think! I do not own anything you recognize.**

"Bees?"

"Yes. Bees. Bumblebees."

John laughed, "Why is your Patronus a swarm of bumblebees?"

"I don't know." Sherlock said, sounding as though he was pondering that question, "The Patronus is a projection of subliminal feelings and unconscious thoughts. On some level I must be fascinated with bumblebees."

John nodded. "Alright. Good to know. I wonder what my Patronus is."

They were walking through the empty corridors of Hogwarts on a sunny Saturday in late May. Most of the students were enjoying the nice spring day; John and Sherlock had remained inside because, in Sherlock's words: "Following the masses is a pastime for sheep and idiots. Not me." So, they didn't join the frolicking Hogwartians in the mild sunshine.

"Hm. I have some ideas about what your Patronus could be." Sherlock said, a glint in his eyes that usually meant he was about to reveal the closest person's innermost secrets.

"Yeah?" John said, looking wistfully out of a window at the Quidditch field.

"Yes." Sherlock said, bringing his steepled hands up to rest against his chin. "I've made a hobby of picking apart your psyche."

"Thank-you?" John said, slightly confused.

"I immediately ruled out a dog. Dogs make far too common Patronuses, so that manifestation clearly belongs to Graham."

"Graham?...oh you mean, Greg." John put his hands in his pockets as they walked. "Why does Greg get a dog Patronus but not me? I love dogs."

Sherlock gave John a disgusted look. "Everyone has a dog Patronus, because everyone has elements of dog inside them. Those basic instincts and inherent playfulness. You do not have a dog Patronus. I refuse to entertain the idea. You are above ordinary people." Sherlock finished with a lofty sniff.

John grinned. "Great. I've been promoted."

Sherlock ignored this comment. "I also dismissed the idea of your Patronus being a hedgehog, despite your diminutive stature and consistent ability to get involved in situations that are over your head."

"Diminutive?"

"My Patronus comes from my personality: bees are independent, clever, and erratic."

"If you say so." John muttered.

"Therefore, your Patronus will also take shape from your personality traits."

"Shoot, then." Sherlock always built up his deductions to a frustrating height, so that John was left eager to hear what conclusions his friend had drawn. He probably did it on purpose: genius did love an audience, after all.

Sherlock was grinning. "Your impatience is quite amusing. Fine. Based on my deductions and my comprehensive knowledge of you, your Patronus—if you ever manage to produce one—will be a Phoenix."

John stopped walking as they arrived at Gryffindor tower. They had arrived there without discussion of where they were going. "A Phoenix?"

Sherlock hummed in acquiescence.

"Why a Phoenix?"

"Many reasons. You are tremendously loyal to those you consider your friends. Phoenixes are known for their loyalty and fierce defense of their kind, so in those traits alone a Phoenix would bring to life your psyche."

The Fat Lady was watching them. "You two are insufferable. All you boys ever do is stand in front of my portrait and _talk._ Are you going in the Common Room or do you wish to continue testing my nerves?" She said.

Sherlock looked somewhat scandalized at being interrupted.

"Come on, Sherlock. You can keep telling me why I'm a Phoenix in the Common Room."

Once inside, Sherlock continued promptly.

"You believe in new beginnings, second chances, the like. You're a romantic: the afterlife or life after death are intriguing ideas for you. The Phoenix literally embodies rebirth and fresh starts because of its rather fascinating habit of dissolving into ash, then subsequently starting a new life."

Sherlock picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet that was lying on a table and threw himself into an armchair. John joined him by the fireplace, choosing an armchair that looked well-worn. Gryffindor tower was vacant, so no groanings came from proud Gryffindors who didn't want Sherlock to visit the tower.

"In addition, Phoenixes have healing powers." Here, Sherlock looked at John pointedly. "You're studying to become a Healer. Weak deduction, I know. A relevant one nonetheless."

Flipping idly through the _Prophet,_ Sherlock appeared to be sifting through his train-of-thought for further proof that John's Patronus would be a Phoenix.

"How long have you been thinking about this?" John asked, as always, impressed by Sherlock's deductions.

Sherlock shrugged, peering at an article in the paper then tossing it aside in disgust. "Since I first managed to produce a Patronus...almost four years ago."

"Ah. So, you've had a lot of time to work it out, then."

"Indeed. Let me finish. Phoenixes can carry immensely heavy loads and they represent the strong and morally right. I see you in these traits because I often get the impression that you are carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders."

John sighed.

"Am I wrong?"

"No, you're not wrong. I do have a habit of letting stress overwhelm me." John said with a small, self-deprecating smile.

"Exactly. Finally—and don't think I'm being emotional—Phoenix song is a remarkably powerful cadence that brings people together and allows them to either grieve or reminisce. I have always seen your friendliness and capabilities of making a group of people into close friends as Phoenix song. With your charm, unassuming nature, and faithful devotion to the people who matter, you emit a tranquil song that makes people want to get to know you. Judging by your ever-widening group of friends, that Phoenix song is very powerful." Sherlock finished with a look on his face that translated into: _Ugh. Sentiment._

John thought that little speech might've been the nicest thing Sherlock had ever said to him.

"I think there was a compliment in there somewhere." John said and Sherlock scoffed.

"If you believe the truth is a compliment, then, yes, there was a compliment in my deductions."

"Now you definitely have to teach me how to produce a Patronus—I have to see if you're right." John said.

With a put-upon sigh, Sherlock pulled out his wand. "First, you must know the incantation."

And so, the teaching started. Sherlock wasn't the best—or the most patient—teacher, but a couple of hours later, by which time there was an audience of curious Gryffindors watching John's attempts, silver vapor emerged from John's wand and took shape.

"I told you so." Said Sherlock as they watched the dazzling silver Phoenix glide around the room.

John laughed in pure glee; he never thought he would be able to produce a Patronus. "Yes, you knew all along."

The surrounding Gryffindors clapped and cheered, then dispersed with the fading of the gorgeous Phoenix. Sherlock looked highly satisfied with himself.

"Next, I will tell you what your Boggart could be." Sherlock said and John shook his head.


	15. The Room of Requirement

**Author's Note: Simple and short. Hope you guys like it, anyway. This is during second year. Tell me what you think!**

Sherlock was documenting the various fungi on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest one afternoon when John ran up to him looking excited.

"Sherlock, I found something. You have to come see this!" John said, panting, indicative of his mad dash to meet Sherlock at the edge of school grounds.

"Hush, John, I'm busy." Sherlock responded. He barely looked up from a foreign growth at the base of a tall oak. Sherlock inspected the plant's leaves: it could be knotgrass, but it also resembled hemlock...

John was babbling something. Sherlock hummed in question to get his friend to repeat what he had been saying.

"You really need to stop zoning out when people are talking," John said with a huff. "I was telling you about the room I found! It's extraordinary! You need to come see it, it could've disappeared by now."

That peaked Sherlock's interest.

"Disappeared? You found a room that comes and goes?" Sherlock asked, looking up at John's eager face.

John grinned, "Yes. I can't tell you how good it feels to have discovered one of Hogwarts' secrets before you."

Sherlock dropped the plant he had been examining and stood up. "Show me."

"That's what I've been trying to do! Come on!"

The two of them trekked across the grounds until they reached the castle doors.

"It's on the seventh floor." John said as they climbed the marble staircase. "I was walking through corridors thinking about how I needed a better broomstick for the match against Ravenclaw next week, and this door appeared out of nowhere!"

"And you opened it." Sherlock said, looking askance at his friend.

"Yes, I'm getting to that. When I opened the door, there were hundreds of broomsticks of every make and model." John said, his eyes gleaming.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought. Hogwarts had many doors and rooms with fantastical qualities. Just last week, while skulking through the corridors at night, Sherlock had come across a door that refused—verbally—to open. Sherlock had been offended by the obscenities the door had shouted at him as he persistently pulled at its doorknob.

"So, this room comes and goes... and fills itself according to the whims of the seeker?" Sherlock said, thinking out loud. "Not a far-fetched idea, I suppose, considering that I grew up in a house that magically expanded depending on the number of guests my mother was entertaining."

John laughed. "If you grew up in a house like that, I doubt you'll think the room I found is as amazing as I do."

Sherlock scanned the area they stopped walking in. "That remains to be seen. Is it here? It seems to have disappeared again."

The section of the seventh-floor corridor they were in wasn't all that impressive. Sherlock scoffed at a tapestry depicting a wizard training trolls to dance in a ballet on the stone wall.

"Yeah. It'll come back, though. Hang on..." John was knocking on the wall opposite the troll tapestry and frowning. "The door materialized…" John took a step to the right and pointed at the wall. "Here." John knocked on the wall again.

Sherlock watched John, amused. "And you are quite sure this door wasn't a figment of your imagination?"

"Yes. I'm sure. I opened it and walked inside." John said, "I even tried out a couple of the more impressive brooms. It's here. Just give me a minute."

Sherlock joined John in front of the bare wall. Unremarkable though the wall was, Sherlock could sense something ethereal about the place.

"You said you were thinking about what you needed when you came across this room, yes?" Sherlock asked.

John sighed. "Yeah. I need a new broom 'cause Ravenclaw is going to murder us if I have to ride that rickety Cleansweep one more time." John scratched the back of his head frustratedly. "I should've nicked one of those fantastic brooms while I had the chance."

"I believe this room you found shows itself to those who have a need for something, then." Sherlock said, thinking fast. "Think about how much you need the broom again."

John looked at him suspiciously but seemed to comply.

Though Sherlock did not need or want a broom, he too turned his thoughts to the need of a broom.

"Come on…" Sherlock muttered, wanting validation for his theory.

Validation came not thirty seconds later. A large, ornate door had appeared directly in front of them. John laughed with glee, while Sherlock smirked in triumph: he was correct as usual.

When they opened the door, the room they saw would've put Quality Quidditch Supplies' collection of brooms to shame.

"I told you so." John said, gazing at the brooms stacked up to the ceiling.

"Hm. I think I told _you_ so. If I hadn't told you to think about what you needed, you would still be standing in the corridor kicking the wall." Sherlock said.

"True." John said, walking further into the room and selecting a sleek and shiny broomstick.

"It seems to be a room of requirement…" Sherlock said, watching John admire the brooms.

"It fills itself with whatever the seeker needs, so that enforces the idea that the room is sentient, or at least created with a spell of sentience." Sherlock was aware that John wasn't listening to him, he always did his best deductions when he could use John as his sounding board, though.

Sherlock walked around the room, his mind going a mile a minute. He could think of eight—no, nine—hypotheses he wanted to test on the room's capabilities.

If the seeker needed food, would the room oblige? Would the seeker's hunger override the first of the principal exceptions to Gamp's Law preventing the conjuring of any form of nourishment? What were the room's limits? Could the room satisfy several needs at once? Could the room expand in size?

The questions kept coming at lightning fast speeds in Sherlock's ever-racing mind. Sherlock never could resist a mystery.

"John, I need to test a theory. Come on."

"What?" John said, holding a Nimbus as though it were a child.

"We have to exit the room. I need to gauge its limits."

John looked at the Nimbus in his hands, then nodded. "I'm taking this. I asked, the room gave. I'd say it's rightfully mine."

"Yes, yes, take them all if you wish. Just get out so I can test my hypotheses." Sherlock said, itching to have his questions answered.

John smiled at him as they exited the Room of Requirement. "Have fun. I'm off to ride my new Nimbus. The rest of the team will go nuts."

Sherlock waved him off and steepled his fingers.

"I'm sending you here whenever you're bored." John said, giving the door a last glance. "A room that gives you whatever you need." John shook his head with a smile on his face, "I love magic."

Sherlock chuckled: John always found wonder in everything. He would express amazement at every little thing in the magical world. From creatures to flicks of a wand, John would beam widely. This time, Sherlock returned his sentiments.

The Room of Requirement was glorious even to Sherlock the pureblood. He intended to spend the rest of the day in the room of endless possibilities.


	16. Summer, Sixth Year

**Author's Note: I own nothing. Kinda like this one. Tell me what you think. Reviews are helpful, informative, and absolutely fantastic.**

When John finished his sixth year at Hogwarts, he moved out of his family house. At seventeen, he was officially of age—in the wizarding world, at least—and he managed to get a job as a Healer-in-training at St. Mungo's. With all of his duties at St. Mungo's, John was kept so busy he felt as though he wasn't on break at all.

In addition, John had applied to a Muggle University because he wanted to be a doctor as well as a Healer. Sherlock still thought John's idea of a dual life was insane— "And highly inconvenient, John" Sherlock had said, "However will you find time to aid me in my cases as a consulting Auror?"—but John was certain life as a doctor and a Healer would be rewarding.

In his dreary apartment in London, John had two books open on his rickety desk: _Grey's Anatomy_ and W _hy Do Muggles Feel the Need to Cut Open the Body to Solve Problems? A Study in Less Invasive Healing Methods._

John was just thinking that the two items on his desk were contradictory—one detailing the methods of a surgeon, and the other bemoaning surgery—and he wondered for perhaps the hundredth time how he was going to reconcile his career as a doctor and his wizarding profession of Healer.

John ran his hands through his blonde hair, closing his eyes as well. God, he was so tired. Maybe Sherlock was right: John was crazy if he thought he could live two lives.

And that was when, with a loud crack, Sherlock Holmes materialized behind him.

John turned around so fast at the loud crack he got whiplash. Rubbing his neck, he was somehow not surprised to see Sherlock standing slightly off-balance in the middle of his small apartment.

"Hello, John." Sherlock said, looking paler than usual. "I seem to have Splinched myself." And he promptly collapsed.

John blinked in shock, then when his mind caught up with events, he swore and leapt out of his seat.

He crouched at Sherlock's prone side and turned him around so he could see his chest. Sherlock's white shirt was splotched with crimson blood and John gasped. Sherlock's eyes were closed. John ran a hand along Sherlock's neck, feeling for a pulse. The pulse was there, though it was faint.

"Sherlock, you idiot." John muttered, ripping open Sherlock's shirt to better look at the wound. Well, time for some hands-on Healer practice.

Sherlock groaned and woke from the dead faint he had fallen into. "Did I faint?" Sherlock said.

"Yes, shut up, you're losing blood." John scanned Sherlock's side: there was a gaping wound where flesh looked as though it had been scooped out. He had very clearly splinched himself.

"What the hell were you thinking?" John said, running over to his bed to get his bag of supplies. The wound wouldn't be too terribly hard to fix—every Healer carried Dittany around and he knew a variety of complex anti-infection spells—so he was more angry than worried.

It was a testament to how long they had been friends that John was somewhat calm when taking out his supplies. John didn't think anything could surprise him anymore.

Sherlock was still very pale. "My thought process was simple: my parents were being insufferable, I wanted to tell you about that fact, so, I came here." Sherlock grimaced in pain as John opened his bag and pulled out Essence of Dittany, his wand, and some cloth bandages.

"I've," Sherlock groaned as John cleaned the wound, "Studied splinching."

"Of course you have."

"Most often… An apparator is splinched because of insufficient determination. I suppose I must be…thankful that I did not leave more of myself behind. Mycroft" Even in the throes of pain, Sherlock managed to say his brother's name with a sneer, "Would never let me hear the end of it if I left a leg behind."

"How did you even know where I was?" John asked, pouring the Dittany over the wound. John hadn't told anyone but his mother he was moving out.

Sherlock clenched his teeth in response to the fast-acting Dittany's sting. "Mycroft. He's been keeping an eye on you. Knew the minute you signed the lease on this flat."

John watched Sherlock's wound heal itself, within seconds it looked several days old.

"Typical." John said with a sigh and began unrolling the cloth bandages.

Sherlock eyed his wound and hummed in satisfaction, making to sit up.

John pushed him back down. "I need to bandage it."

Sherlock grumbled. "It is no shock that I splinched myself. I didn't realize I was going to Apparate until I was in transit. Mother had irked me so."

"You're lucky you already passed your Apparition test." John said, tightening Sherlock's bandages and making his friend grimace again. "Sorry. The Ministry—including Mycroft—would be on you like Bowtruckles to doxy eggs if you were apparating illegally."

John helped Sherlock sit up. He was regaining some of the color he had lost from depleting blood.

"Unexpected drawback notwithstanding," Sherlock gestured to his now cleaned and bandaged wound, "it is great to be in the company of someone who doesn't constantly harangue me about my _future."_ Sherlock said the last word as though it were a hateful fiend.

John left Sherlock propped up against the side of his couch and went to put his supplies away. "What do you mean, 'your future'?" John asked.

Sherlock had taken out his wand and was in the process of siphoning the blood off of his shirt.

"Though, you harangue me about everything else." Sherlock muttered, giving his wand a flick as the last of the blood was cleared up.

"Are your parents less than pleased with your career choice?" John asked.

"I don't see how they can be. I'll be technically working with the Ministry."

"As a freelance consultant."

Sherlock grumbled. "That's my father's argument. He will not rest until I say I will join him and Mycroft in one of the boring jobs at the Ministry of Magic. Or commit to becoming an Auror instead of simply being on the force as a consultant."

John noticed that Sherlock was looking rather drained after this little speech. He didn't know how to respond to Sherlock's talk of familial woes, so instead he offered to help Sherlock up so he could lie down.

Sherlock swatted John's helping hand away, "I'm not an invalid, I can do it myself." Sherlock made no move to get up.

"Okay." John said, crossing his arms and trying not to smirk.

Sherlock glared at him and rocked forward onto his knees. As John had been expecting, Sherlock's face drained of color at the minimal effort. John stepped forward and supported Sherlock so that he could lie down on the couch.

"You know, I am training to be a Healer. I know what I'm talking about."

Sherlock had his eyes closed, but he stuck his tongue out at John childishly at his statement.

John laughed then sobered as his eyes fell on Sherlock's bandages. "Are you going to apologize for scaring me, then?"

Sherlock cracked an eye open, "It wasn't intentional. I didn't even know I was coming here until the last second, remember?"

"Yeah. Just… I know I want to be a Healer, but I don't particularly want to fix you up all the time. So… be more careful, yeah?" John hated to think that, due to Sherlock's constant recklessness, he would have to use his Healer abilities a lot in the future to help his friend.

There was a rare sincerity in his eyes as Sherlock responded, "Yes, John."

John nodded. "How long until the might of the Ministry descends upon us looking for you."

Sherlock shrugged, "Could happen at any—"

At that moment, a silver Patronus appeared in between them. It was a magnificent peacock and it spoke in Mycroft's voice, "Mother and Father know where you are, brother mine, but they want nothing to do with you at present. It might be best for you to stay where you are." The peacock dissipated.

"You're lucky I was home." John said, not acknowledging the Patronus.

"Hm. I'm lucky you're a Healer." Sherlock said, settling deeper into the couch to make himself comfortable.

"Very." John agreed. "Your splinching could've been so much worse."

"Your hospitality is most appreciated. I don't plan on leaving anytime soon."

John chuckled and walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on. "Term begins in a couple weeks. You might as well stay. Tea?"

"Love some."


	17. A Typical Afternoon

**Author's Note: Set in fourth year. Comments give me life, so please help me to keep living! I own absolutely nothing.**

Sherlock was under the impression that John needed dueling practice.

"You're just too slow, John. It takes you far too long to reciprocate with a counter curse. And even when you do cast a spell it's a boring one."

John had been reading in the shade of a tree on the Hogwarts grounds when Sherlock approached him and insulted his dueling skills. "A 'boring one'? What spells do you consider boring?" John said.

"The Disarming spell and the Shield charm." Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste as if protecting yourself with a Shield charm was dull. "Its as if these are the only two spells in your repertoire. The goal of dueling is to offer some offense as well as defense."

"Why do I need to be fast and homicidal with spellwork? It's not like Healers spend a lot of time jinxing people." John responded.

Sherlock flopped down by John's side under the tree. "Aurors do. If you're not proficient at dueling, you would take credibility from my skills as a Consultant."

John scoffed. "I thought you wanted me around to be your medical expert, or whatever."

"Hm. More like personal Healer."

"Hilarious. You just want me to tag along and fix you when you inevitably injure yourself."

Sherlock grinned. "Wherever did you get that idea?"

John turned a page in his book, smiling a little. "So, why are you worried about my dueling skills?"

Sherlock pulled out his wand and twirled it, making sparks appear.

"I pissed off Anderson again. He may challenge the two of us to a duel."

John leaned his head back so it rested on the tree trunk. "Why both of us? It was you who pissed him off by— what did you do this time?"

"Nicked his Potions book and enchanted it to disintegrate when touched." Sherlock chuckled in remembrance.

"That's not enough to justify a duel."

"In addition, I informed the crowded Great Hall that Anderson's mother and father were separating because his father had an affair with a goblin."

John closed his eyes in exasperated amusement. "Anderson's father did not have an affair with a goblin."

"No. He didn't. But the majority of the school accepted my reveal whole-heartedly.

John held back a laugh; if he wanted to teach Sherlock the proper way to deal with people he couldn't encourage him. "Great. Another childish prank and unasked-for deduction by the great Sherlock Holmes and he's going to go after both of us."

"Admirable summary." Sherlock said.

"Do you seriously think I need practice to duel _Anderson_? Surely, you think I can defeat that git."

"Anderson is a rubbish dueler, yes, but Anderson's better qualified friends may want to join in the fun."

"Do you mean Sally Donovan? 'Cause even Anderson knows his girlfriend could tear him apart in a duel with her wand hand tied behind her back."

"Donovan. Maybe Moran as well."

"A big, happy, Slytherin showdown, then?"

Sherlock looked at him strangely. "If you want to put it like that."

John closed his book and yawned; the late afternoon sun was making him drowsy. "I doubt Moran will deign to make an appearance. He thinks too highly of himself to compete in a duel over a stupid prank."

"He could come to watch, though." Sherlock said, his eyes on the castle's front doors, where a group of Slytherins—including Moran—were congregated.

Sherlock and John watched the group of five Slytherins amble across the castle lawns toward the tree they were sitting next to. Moran, Anderson, Donovan and two third-years neither Sherlock nor John recognized made up the group.

"Holmes!" Anderson said as soon as they were within five feet of each other. "You must've known I would retaliate after you spread that rumor."

"Anderson, why must you speak as if you are in the midst of a horrendous grade-school film?" Sherlock drawled. John smirked.

"Shut up. I'm tired of the lewd comments about my goblin-loving father."

"So, he does love goblins?" John chimed in. "I thought that was just a rumor."

"Watson, you're not fit to wipe the dirt from Phillip's father's boots." Donovan said with a sneer.

"If Mr. Anderson's magical capabilities are anything like his son's, he could be a Muggle himself. I would think a Muggle-born like John is a step up from a pureblood who resembles a Squib because they were too arrogant to take their education seriously." Sherlock said. He was always so touchy whenever John was mocked because of his parentage.

"God, why don't you just tell the Mudblood you love him already, Holmes?" Moran said, smiling in a malicious sort of way.

Sherlock Stupefied Moran nonverbally and the surprised Moran crumpled. John brought out his wand and blocked a jinx from Donovan. Rather than embarrassing himself by joining in, Anderson retreated next to the silent Slytherin third-years. John tried not to use the "boring" Disarming spell; he sent jinx after jinx at Donovan while Sherlock silently appraised him.

Hogwartians love a duel, so, of course gawkers were abundant. At a warning shout from Anderson—"here comes a professor!"—Donovan jerked her wand upward in a last Shield charm, before taking off with Anderson and the other Slytherins close behind.

The professor, John thought it might be the Arithmancy professor, was admonishing them shrilly from twenty feet away.

"How did I do? Was I quick enough for you?" John asked, breathing hard.

Sherlock shrugged and John shoved him in mock anger. "Well, we haven't had detention for at least two months. I wonder what the punishment is for dueling on Hogwarts grounds." John said, feeling unexpectedly blasé about the whole thing.

"Most likely something worse than lines." Sherlock said.


	18. To Sleep, Perchance To Dream

**Author's Note: Three little glimpses into Sherlock's sleeping habits. Or lack thereof. Kind of a five plus one except there's only three and there's no plus one. Tell me what you think! I own nothing.**

John was just drifting off to sleep after a grueling Quidditch practice when he heard violin music.

"I'm going to kill him." John muttered without opening his eyes. "This time. Really. Does he ever rest?" For John knew exactly who would think it alright to perform a violin concerto to the empty moonlit castle grounds.

John pushed back his covers and stood up, still muttering darkly to himself about Hogwarts' resident nocturnal violinist.

Sherlock had been performing concerts in the Forest for the last couple days, but John couldn't recall the music being this loud before.

The music increased in volume as John staggered to his dormitory window _. He probably put a bloody Sonorus charm on his violin so the whole castle could hear_ , John thought.

John's dormitory window primarily displayed the Forbidden Forest, so John could see where Sherlock was standing: in between two trees at the entrance to the Forest. Even from a distance, John could tell that his friend was wearing a serene expression and drawing his bow across his violin's strings, producing the melody that had woken John up.

"At least it's pleasant music and not screeching this time." John muttered through a yawn.

John wondered if he had talked to himself this much before he had met Sherlock.

The trek across the grounds was not worth a stop to the serenade. Sherlock looked so content—a mood that he was not known for—that John knew he would not berate his friend for this activity.

Stumbling back to bed, already half-asleep again, John figured Sherlock could have taken up a worse hobby than nighttime concerts.

* * *

Sherlock was sleeping in History of Magic. Again. John sat two seats to the left of his friend debating whether or not to throw something at Sherlock to wake him up.

Even as John rolled his eyes in exasperation as he looked at his slumbering friend, he knew that Sherlock really needed this rest.

Professor Binns told the class in painstaking detail about the increase of unregistered Animagi in the seventeenth century. Everything the old ghost said sounded as dry as a stale cracker, so, of course, Sherlock was not the first to succumb to sleep in Binns' class. For some reason, John was more worried by Sherlock falling asleep in History of Magic than if anyone else had. Perhaps this worry stemmed from what John knew about Sherlock, and how his friend never sleeps willingly.

John doodled on a scrap piece of parchment while Binns droned on. Sherlock was still sleeping: resting peacefully with his head on his arms, his long-fingered hands twitching slightly as though even in sleep he was itching to write out theories or stir a cauldron. John couldn't see Sherlock's face because of his wild black curls that stretched in every direction.

"That concludes our lesson for today. Essays are due in a fortnight." Professor Binns glided through the blackboard with this closing statement, and as one, the class broke out of the reverie-like state they had all sank into.

John stretched and put his book and papers back into his bag. He would regret not taking notes, as he had an essay to write on the subject of unregistered Animagi, but he could always visit the library. Sherlock hadn't stirred with the rest of the class; while everyone around him talked, laughed, and cleared out of the classroom, Sherlock remained slumped over his desk.

Putting his bag over his shoulder, John walked the short distance to Sherlock's side and shook him. Sherlock shook his head and made a shooing gesture with one hand. John prodded Sherlock's side.

"Get up, Sherlock. Class is over."

"Already know 'bout Animagi, John." Sherlock's words were amusingly slurred by sleep. "I can sleep cos I read 'bout Animagi…"

John chuckled. "Yes, I know you're an expert on Animagi, but you have to go to Charms next."

Sherlock groaned and rolled his head to the side, finally showing his face. Sherlock rubbed his bleary eyes with his hand and then pushed himself up to a slouched position. "My great-aunt was an Animagi." Sherlock said, more awake now but clearly disoriented. "She'd walk 'round the house as a freckled mare and it became so common that no one questioned it."

Sherlock was very candid when sleepy.

"Good for great-aunt Holmes. C'mon Sherlock. You have to get to class." John grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him forcibly from his seat.

"Yes, John." Sherlock muttered and John patted him on the shoulder as he too headed off to class.

* * *

The Restricted Section was the best section of the library in Sherlock's opinion. For obvious reasons. This roped-off series of shelves held a glorious conglomeration of the most gruesome and dangerous books ever written and Sherlock was determined to read every one of them.

Sherlock had been in the library for a couple hours. It was two in the morning and he had come here when the library was closed not to sneak into the Restricted Section—Sherlock could browse these shelves at his leisure when the library was crowded, Madam Pince was getting quite absentminded—but to prove to everyone that it was easy. By everyone, he meant John.

The book that Sherlock was scanning was whispering to itself. The weird part was that it wasn't whispering the contents of its pages, rather it was detailing how to prune a Flutterby bush. Why was this plant-whisperer book even in the Restricted Section?

Sherlock replaced the book on the shelf and picked up another. He made a noise of satisfaction when he saw the title on the aged spine: _Grisly Unsolved Homicides in Great Britain._ Sherlock sneered at the word 'unsolved'. Incompetent Aurors.

By four in the morning, Sherlock had read through five books. He'd solved three of the cases in the wizard homicide book, taken note of an interesting Mandrake theory in a book called, _The Deadly Scream,_ and tore out a diagram depicting a person being turned inside-out from _Moste Potente Potions_ to study later.

Sherlock put the torn page in a pocket of his dressing gown and shoved each book back onto the shelf unceremoniously. "Nox." Sherlock extinguished his wand tip with a small flick.

Thinking of the long walk back to Ravenclaw tower, Sherlock groaned. His transport was exhausted from the long night of reading and Gryffindor tower was closer. Sherlock directed his feet in the direction of John's common room.

John's only reaction to seeing Sherlock asleep on the couch in the Gryffindor common room was to sigh heavily. He could not honestly say that he was surprised.


	19. No Permission Needed

**Author's Note: Set in Third year. The story of their first trip to Hogsmeade. Thanks to everyone who has favorited/followed/and reviewed! I own absolutely nothing because these characters belong to more creative people.**

"You could get in trouble for this, Sherlock. I should tell a professor."

Sherlock looked back at John with a smirk. "You won't." He replied.

John sighed. "No. I won't. But you know this is going to piss your brother off, and his wrath is worse than lost House points."

"That is the goal." Sherlock said, still smirking.

Sherlock brought out his wand and muttered a spell whilst pointing at a statue of a witch with one eye and a hump. The statue shifted and a hole big enough to squeeze through revealed itself.

"How?—" John started, but didn't finish because he knew by now it was best not to ask. Of course, Sherlock had found a secret passage out of the castle.

"This leads to Hogsmeade, then?" John asked, resigned to his life of constant anxiety caused by Sherlock-related illicit activities.

"Hm. This is one of seven..." Sherlock thought for a moment, "No, eight, of Hogwarts' secret passages that lead to Hogsmeade."

"Right. At least now I know what you do when you wander the corridors at night when you should be sleeping. Do you have a map of Hogwarts in that Mind Palace of yours? Complete with all of the secret passages and where they lead?" John asked, eyeing the crevice made by the one-eyed witch statue and thinking that getting in would be a tight fit for anyone who wasn't as thin as Sherlock.

"Of course. Since first year." Sherlock said. "This passage lets out in Honeydukes. Meet me there." Sherlock slipped into the crevice and disappeared from sight.

"I don't know why I put up with you." John said to the crevice as it closed. John began walking the longer, traditional way to Hogsmeade.

Sherlock couldn't get to Hogsmeade the traditional way with the other third years because his parents hadn't signed the permission slip. John hadn't gotten the full story, but he'd gathered that Mycroft had told his parents not to give Sherlock permission to visit the wizarding village next to Hogwarts because Sherlock had stolen Mycroft's Gringotts key and spent a significant amount of Mycroft's gold on sweets and Apothecary ingredients. The sweets, Sherlock told John, were purchased to mock and tempt Mycroft, who was on a diet.

"Having permission to go to Hogsmeade revoked was a small price to pay to see the look on Mycroft's face when he discovered hundreds of sweets around his bedroom." Sherlock had said.

The Holmes family drama aside, John was looking forward to his first trip to the wizarding village of Hogsmeade. His mother had signed his permission slip gladly, telling him to get her a souvenir, as though Hogsmeade was an amusement park.

Sherlock was waiting for him where he said he'd be; John found the sweets shop fairly quickly as Sherlock was standing in front of the shop's windows looking out at the crowded street.

"You look like a vulture looming over its prey." John told Sherlock after he entered the shop.

Sherlock didn't look away from the window. "Not entirely inaccurate."

"Sherlock, what'd we say about the psychopathic comments?" John said. He was probably the only one in the world who could tease Sherlock and get away with it.

"Sociopathic comments." Sherlock corrected.

"Right." John said, gazing at the stacked shelves stuffed with sweets. "So, why were you so keen to get to Hogsmeade? You're not one to enjoy shopping or walks through crowded streets."

Sherlock looked away from the window. "On the contrary, John, crowded streets are the best environment to hone my deduction skills." Sherlock swept his bright eyes around the shop. Many Hogwarts students bounded eagerly from shelf to shelf. "For instance, that man," Sherlock pointed rather rudely, "Is engaged to a woman who has twins, one of which is a Metamorphmagus—"

"Bollocks." John interrupted.

"I assure you my deductions are sound. His stepson—"

"No, I know you're right as usual, I'm referring to your reason for being here. You could people-watch anywhere. You went through all that trouble to get here just to prove that you can. No permission slip needed."

Sherlock patted John on the shoulder as though he were a dog that had accomplished a new trick. "Well done, John, you're learning."

John rolled his eyes. "I may not be the future world's only Consulting Auror, but I can read you pretty well."

Sherlock hummed in affirmation. While John purchased a couple of outlandish sweets for his mother, (Cockroach Clusters? Really? Do wizards find that appetizing?) Sherlock followed him, looking at the shelves disinterestedly.

Their next stop in Hogsmeade was The Three Broomsticks pub. They sat in the back after John ordered a butterbeer and John decided to indulge Sherlock's people-watching wishes.

"What about him?" John gestured surreptitiously to an elderly warlock sitting alone not far from where Sherlock and John had sat. John's question was a prompt for Sherlock to show-off, and unsurprisingly, Sherlock obliged.

"Retired Auror."

"How do you know?" John sipped his butterbeer; Greg was right—the drink was great.

Sherlock leant back in his seat and observed the man. "He's uneasy. Twitchy. A man who spent a long time watching his own back. His wand is on the table suggesting he's used to being ready for a duel at any moment. Then, of course, there's his tactical choice of seat."

John glanced at the man, and saw what Sherlock meant by 'tactical choice'.

"He's sitting in the corner," John said, "So that no one could sneak up on him from behind."

Sherlock smiled and John could see a hint of pride in his friend's eyes. "Yes. Typical of an Auror, sitting in the one seat where you can see everyone at the same time."

"Can't blame the bloke," John said, taking another swig of butterbeer. "A longtime Auror like him probably has a lot of enemies."

"Most likely." Sherlock said, clearly losing interest.

"How about Mr. Drowning-himself-in-multiple-Firewhiskeys over there?" John said, referring to a rather forlorn wizard slouched at the bar.

"Considering it's barely eleven o'clock and he has downed four strong drinks, his raging alcoholism isn't hard to deduce." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man. "Look at the ring on his finger."

John obliged. "What about it?"

"It's meticulously polished; I can see it shining from here. Normally, a man's marriage is what drives him to alcohol, and judging by his wedding ring he is very happily married. That leaves us with family history. He could get his alcoholic tendencies from his father or mother…" Sherlock glanced at the drunk man's trousers. "Yes, his father."

John shook his head. "That's incredible. How did you get that from his trousers."

"Stains. Those trousers were his fathers—they are ill-fitting and an old-fashioned style. There are two stains decorating the unkempt trousers, both stains come from whiskey."

"He looks like he's used to being in Muggle clothes. What's his blood status?" John asked.

"Very good, John, he's half-blood. His mother was a witch."

"Was?"

"She died. Recently. That must be the reason he's roaring drunk at just gone 11:00."

"So, one paranoid Auror, and one mourning alcoholic. What a happy pub."

"Admirable summary." Sherlock said.

"Okay..." John scanned the pub's crowded tables. "How about that witch? What's her story?"

Sherlock followed John's gaze. "Daily Prophet journalist."

"Ink on her fingers? Multiple quills in her bag?" John asked, grinning.

"No. I've seen her picture heading multiple columns whilst reading the Prophet." Sherlock said.

John stared at Sherlock with exasperation and Sherlock grinned cheekily.

After visiting Zonko's, Dervish and Banges, and the Shrieking Shack—which Sherlock immediately ruled was not haunted—John asked Sherlock what the retribution would be for his illegal trip to Hogsmeade.

Sherlock looked delighted to ponder what the other Holmeses reactions might be. "I will most likely look forward to Mummy's disappointment, father's indifference, and Mycroft's seething rage." He said.

The next day, Sherlock received a red-enveloped Howler during morning post. The entire Great Hall heard the three Holmeses warring for dominance as they reprimanded the youngest Holmes.

Sherlock merely sighed, as though mourning the predictability of it all.

Sherlock's permission slip arrived signed a couple of days later. John figured the Holmes family had stopped fighting it at this point.


	20. Skipping Classes

**Author's Note: Set in fourth year. Tell me what you think. Anyone who knows what the riddle in this fic is from is amazing. I do not own the riddle, the characters, or the setting.**

Sherlock had been skipping classes for three days. This wasn't unusual of Sherlock; often in the last couple years at Hogwarts, the Ravenclaw had deemed the classes of the day unworthy of his attention, so he simply hadn't bothered venturing forth into the castle.

Since John was neither Sherlock's mother, nor his keeper—no matter how much he felt like he took on both of these roles for his friend—John had no right to intervene and force Sherlock to go to class, so he didn't.

This time, though, John felt like he had to intervene. For Sherlock wasn't just skipping classes, he was skipping meals. Normally, Sherlock, at least, came into the Great Hall, and John could bully him into eating _something._ Closeted in his room for three days, Sherlock hadn't eaten anything, and John was growing concerned.

At breakfast, four days since John had seen Sherlock, John searched the Ravenclaw table for the familiar curly head.

He was once again disappointed; Sherlock was easy to spot at the Ravenclaw table because he sat as far away from his fellow House members as possible, so upon seeing Sherlock's usual place at the end of the bench unoccupied, John gave a weary sigh.

Now was the moment of intervention: four days without food was long enough. Abandoning his own half-eaten breakfast, John put together a plate of toast and some sausages—foods Sherlock ate with minimal complaints—and covered it with a napkin before exiting the Great Hall.

John passed Greg on the way out of the Hall. The Hufflepuff was yawning and scratching the back of his head, when he saw John, he offered a tired smile.

"Hey, John. Good win for Gryffindor yesterday; you murdered us. Our captain kept us practicing for hours after the game as a punishment."

John laughed, "Sorry, mate, no wonder you look so tired."

"Yeah, well, we have a chance for redemption if we beat Ravenclaw next week. Hungry?" Greg gestured to the plate in John's hand with this last word.

"No." John said, the smile leaving his face, "Sherlock, the bloody idiot, hasn't eaten in four days."

"Christ, four days? He's skipping meals as well as classes?"

"With Sherlock, it's always all or nothing. I'd better be off, he's been without food for too long." John said, concern and frustration warring for dominance in his voice.

"Sherlock is quite lucky to have a friend like you, John." Greg said to John's back, before shaking his head in fond exasperation at Sherlock's latest antic.

John smiled a bit at the compliment and continued on. John had known where Ravenclaw tower was since first year, so getting there was no trouble. He had lost count of the number of times he had entered Ravenclaw tower at Sherlock's side, prepared to go over theories or finish homework.

The worst part about entering the Ravenclaw tower was the riddle or question that was asked of each person seeking to enter. Sherlock complained about the method of entry constantly, claiming riddles were nonsense. Sherlock got the riddle right every time, so John couldn't see what he was moaning about.

Riddles were not John's specialty, so he faced the eagle knocker on the door that led to Ravenclaw tower with trepidation.

At John's knock, the eagle knocker spoke: _Voiceless it cries, wingless flutters, toothless bites, mouthless mutters._

John blinked at the door. Stupid Ravenclaws. Why couldn't their tower be accessed with a password? They just had to showcase their collective brilliance by making philosophy the key to entry.

Luckily, John had heard a riddle like this before, and he also knew that riddles sounded confusing, but were often simple.

"It's the wind." John answered, somewhat confidently.

"Correct." The eagle knocker said, and the door to Ravenclaw tower swung open.

John was grateful to be met with the sight of an empty common room; it was awkward to be caught sneaking into another House's tower. He climbed the stairs to the fourth-year boy's dormitory and knocked before entering.

The only person in the room was Sherlock. His bed was the farthest from the door and nearest the wide window that gave the room a bright atmosphere. John's friend was hunched over on his unmade bed, reading a book. The sun shining through the window behind Sherlock made him look like he had a halo.

Sherlock didn't look up when the door opened or when John silently walked to his friend's side. Sherlock was still wearing the clothes he had on four days ago: his Ravenclaw tie was loose and lopsided around his neck and his robes were wrinkled from days of lounging around in them.

John cleared his throat pointedly once he was standing by Sherlock's bed. Sherlock was entirely still except for the rapid back-and-forth movement of his bright eyes as he read.

John rolled his eyes and sat down beside Sherlock, taking the book from Sherlock's slack hands.

His friend finally moved. He blinked slowly and straightened his spine, a contemplative look in his eyes, before turning to face John. Sherlock seemed to come to himself in that moment and he frowned at John.

"I was reading that." Sherlock's voice was hoarse with disuse.

John glanced at the book, seeing complex equations on the pages. "Yes, I saw. How long have you been reading?" John had a shrewd suspicion that Sherlock had started this book four days ago and hadn't moved from this spot since.

Sherlock shrugged, taking his book back before responding, "An hour or so. Why are you here? Shouldn't you be... in class?" Sherlock was already sinking back into his book, and John couldn't allow that. He, once again, deprived his friend of his book.

Ignoring Sherlock's huff of protest, he closed the book to view the cover.

"Sherlock, why are you reading a Muggle textbook?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "It's ingenious, John! Muggles have created their own form of potions using equations that once applied cause reactions between chemicals!"

Sherlock talked on enthusiastically and John read the front of the book again: Advanced Chemistry.

John laughed slightly hysterically.

"You...were in your dormitory for four days... reading a Muggle chemistry textbook?"

"Four days?"

"Yes."

"I suppose so. I got the book from the library. Did you know the library has a selection of Muggle books?"

"No food. No rest. Reading a textbook."

Sherlock obviously detected hostility in John's voice for he shrank back slightly. "The books are very intriguing. Chemistry has similar characteristics to potions, and you know I love potions, so discovering that the Muggle world has a version of potions is enlightening." Sherlock sounded placating and childlike and John's anger diminished like air from a popped balloon.

"I'm glad you enjoy chemistry, Sherlock, but you haven't been eating. I doubt you've been sleeping either." John's tone had shifted back to worried friend.

Sherlock had a look on his face that meant _So?_ and _That's just transport_ and _Give me my book back_ all at the same time.

John wondered for perhaps the thousandth time what he had done to deserve the stress of knowing Sherlock. "I will give you back your Advanced Chemistry textbook, and you can continue your insane task of reading through this entire monster book," For the book was at least 400 pages, "If you eat some of this food I've brought you."

Sherlock appeared to debate the pros and cons of this request for a minute and John waited.

"Fair enough." Sherlock said, and took the plate from John's hands and made a grab for the book as well. John held the book out of reach and pointed at the plate of food.

"Eat." John said.

Sherlock groaned and snatched up a piece of toast, biting and chewing it rather aggressively. John smiled.

"There. That wasn't so hard."

Sherlock glowered at him. "Book. Now."

John shook his head, still smiling. "Sorry. Not until you finish that piece of toast."

Sherlock grumbled, but kept eating. "You could've put some marmalade or butter on it first. It's terribly dry."

"Shut up and eat. You've had an empty stomach for four days."

"Your bedside manner is abhorrent. I didn't know I was reading for four days."

"Yeah, you thought you'd been sat down for an hour."

Once Sherlock had finished his toast, John handed his Chemistry book back. Sherlock gave a pleased hum and opened up his book again. He proceeded to explain aloud the steps of Stoichiometry and how it helps in causing reactions.

John half-listened to Sherlock's rambling, and smiled as Sherlock absentmindedly picked up a sausage and munched on it while continuing to explain Stoichiometry.


	21. First Match

**Author's Note: Another Quidditch chapter. Second year. Love to get some feedback; reviews are life! I only own my insanity, Sherlock, John, and Hogwarts belong to someone else.**

Sherlock was against the idea of John trying out for Quidditch from the start. Sports were boring, predictable, and an activity for the mindless. John was not mindless, so Sherlock was a tad confused when John expressed a desire to be on the Gryffindor team.

Despite Sherlock's protestations, John became Gryffindor seeker after performing well in tryouts and because of this, Sherlock was sitting in the midst of hundreds of screaming spectators on a blisteringly hot day oozing bitterness.

Sherlock would rather be anywhere than in a crowded stadium having his eardrums tortured.

"Gryffindor takes the lead! 40 to 30!"

The crowd of crimson and gold bedecked students whooped and cheered. Sherlock plugged his ears and grumbled to himself, his eyes on John, high above the pitch.

John had cajoled, pleaded, and even threatened Sherlock in the weeks preceding the match, trying to get him to come. Sherlock had remained adamant in his refusal until John said: "Please, you're my best friend, you have to come to my first match!"

Sherlock, rather shocked that John had called him his best friend—he had never been anyone's best anything before—had found himself blinking rapidly and agreeing to come, which made John beam at him.

Gryffindor made another goal while Sherlock growled in frustration at the memory of this lapse in judgement; he cursed himself for falling victim to sentiment and complying with John's wishes so rashly.

The bouncing, beaming students surrounding Sherlock bounced and beamed some more when the score became 60-30 with Gryffindor in the lead. Sherlock attempted to sink into his seat, glaring at John who was nothing more than a red blob high above him.

What seemed like an interminably long time later, the commentator was screaming himself hoarse as the score became tied.

"100 to 100! Hufflepuff has tied it up! What a spectacular game this is turning out to be!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes: the announcer sounded like he was about to burst with joy. What a dull life he must have, if a simple passing of balls made him nearly wet himself in excitement.

Sherlock found his mind drifting as the game went on and on. The relief of leaving would be rendered void by John's disappointment upon finding out Sherlock had left in the middle of the match, so Sherlock stayed firmly in his seat, his mind far away with his current Potions essay.

"Smith of Gryffindor is speeding to the goal—Oh! The snitch! Watson's seen it!"

Sherlock looked up at the mention of his friend. Was this game finally coming to an end?

John was feet from the golden ball when a Bludger, hit from one of Hufflepuff's beaters slammed into his chest.

From his seat, Sherlock could see John take a sharp breath and clutch his ribs. John's broom slowly spiraled down as John's focus wavered and the Gryffindor crowd became thunderous with rage directed at the offending Hufflepuff beater.

"Watson takes a hit. Can he still play?... yes, looks like he's staying in! The snitch has disappeared again, play resumes with Pierce taking the Quaffle..."

Sherlock kept his eyes on John, noticing the way his friend's arm was held tightly across his torso, as though to keep his insides in. Bruised, possibly broken ribs likely.

Sherlock muttered under his breath as he watched John, cursing his friend's obstinacy.

"The score is 130 to 120, with Hufflepuff in the lead." Said the announcer, "Gryffindor in possession."

When John caught the snitch, ending the game, ten minutes later, the crowd roared in a dual harmony of cheers and groans.

John's broom slowly sank to the ground, and John, alighting on the ground, punched the air with the fist clutching the snitch and was serenaded by a chorus of raucous screams of celebration from his fellow Gryffindors.

Sherlock, from his vantage point, watched John in his triumph: his hair was wind swept and his face was flushed red. The grin on John's face belied the pain he was in from the Bludger's impact, and Sherlock was the only one in the crowd who saw through his friend's guise.

Sherlock had every intention of marching John directly to the Hospital Wing once he could tear him away from the admiration of Gryffindor house.

The two teams exited the stadium amid the never-ending cacophony of the crowd, and Sherlock fought through the sea of leaving students to follow John into the changing room.

He accosted John before John had entered the changing room, and separated him with difficulty from his fellow teammates.

Without preamble, he prodded John's ribs to gauge any possible damage.

John swatted his hand away without malice; he was still grinning.

"Stop. I'm fine. How'd you like the match? Didn't the team play great?"

Sherlock scowled at being rebuked and responded, "The match was interminably long and I cannot remark on whether or not Gryffindor played well, for I have only a rudimentary knowledge of the sport."

John laughed rather than rolled his eyes at Sherlock's pigheadedness.

"I somehow knew you'd say something like that." John said, then winced and held a hand to his ribs.

"Why don't you stop being a stubborn idiot and go to the hospital wing?" Sherlock said, doing his best to sound unconcerned.

"Don't try and make me regret staying in the game after I was hit," John said, "I couldn't quit in my very first match." There was a glint of stubbornness in John's eyes that Sherlock was quickly becoming accustomed to seeing.

"'Where dwell the brave of heart', indeed. It's a trait of most Gryffindors to be brave to the point of stupidity."

"Yeah, well it's a trait of Ravenclaws to be a smart-arse."

"Shut up and go to the Hospital Wing, John."


	22. Wandlore

**Author's Note: This is quite short. All my information on wands in this story comes from J.K. Rowling's writings on Pottermore. It's fascinating to read, if you haven't already you should check it out! I think I was pretty spot on in deciding what wands would belong to Sherlock and John. I own nothing!**

"A witch or wizard's character can be read in their wand." stated Sherlock, lying languidly on a sofa in the Gryffindor common room.

John was sitting in an armchair adjacent to the sofa Sherlock had stretched out on, doing his Transfiguration homework.

"Yeah?" John prompted, inking his quill to write the answer to the question he was on.

"Yes." Sherlock lay on his back, he had his wand in his hands and was examining it closely. "Anyone who has a rudimentary knowledge of wandlore knows that the wand chooses the wizard, and this means that a wand's core, wood, and rigidity reflects personality traits of the wizard it chooses so that wand and wizard can work together as one."

John put down his quill and rubbed his eyes, "My wand chose me because it shared my personality traits?" He asked.

"In a way, yes." Sherlock said, "Take my wand, for example. If you study the characteristics of wand woods, cores, and degrees of flexibility you would be able to decipher what kind of wizard would own this wand." Holding his wand in the air now, Sherlock made sparks fly out of it as he said 'this wand'.

"You've studied wandlore?"

"Yes, John, do keep up." Sherlock said, sitting up. "I have an ebony wand with a dragon heartstring core," he held up his wand again, "Twelve inches. Rigid. Any idea why this wand chose me?"

"Is this a lecture?" John asked, closing his Transfiguration book, deciding he would do the rest of the homework later.

"Yes. Why did this wand choose me?" Sherlock repeated.

Disregarding the absurdity of the idea that wands are sentient and capable of choosing anything, John answered, "Do ebony wands naturally gravitate toward pretentious prats with massive intellects?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Very funny. Ebony wands belong to wizards with forceful, unswerving beliefs. It is almost impossible to change the mind of the one who wields an ebony wand. Sound familiar?" Sherlock said.

"Very." John said, amused by how eager Sherlock was to share his knowledge of wandlore.

"Ebony wands seek the nonconformist and the outsider." Sherlock concluded.

"Okay, so the wood of your wand definitely suits you." John was intrigued by the line of conversation now. "How about your wand core? What does having a core of dragon heartstring say about you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Its not a personality test, it's an advanced line of hypothesis that—"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going to think of it as a personality test. What does a dragon heartstring core mean?" John asked again.

"Power." Sherlock said simply. "Dragon heartstring cores denote power and intensity in spell-casting. The wand with a dragon heartstring core learns quickly and works efficiently to suit the wizard's needs."

"It's kind of weird to think of wands as capable of learning." John said, stuck on this point.

"You're a Muggle-born, John, you view everything in the wizarding world as weird."

"Not _everything._ " John defended himself.

Sherlock shrugged, then held out a hand imperiously, "Wand."

"There's a more polite way to ask to see my wand, Sherlock." John said, refusing to comply with Sherlock's monosyllabic demands without a fight.

Sherlock gave such a deep sigh it was as if John had asked him to do the most arduous task imaginable.

"All I want is a bloody 'please'." John said, unimpressed by Sherlock's theatrics.

Sherlock muttered something that sounded like: "You're not my mother" and John chuckled. With a petulant glare, Sherlock relented. "Your wand, _please?"_

John grinned, pulling his wand out and placing it in Sherlock's still outstretched hand.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Shut up." Sherlock was now examining John's wand. "Cedar, yes?" He asked John.

"Yes." John nodded, he remembered the day Ollivander presented him with this wand as though it was yesterday. "Cedar with a unicorn hair core."

"Slight flexibility. Eleven inches." Sherlock added.

John confirmed this with a nod.

"I'm not surprised. Cedar wands speak of unwavering loyalty. Cedar wand carriers are often underestimated because of their usually placid nature, but these wizards are quite frightening when they are cross."

John grinned, "Sounds accurate."

"Of course. Now, the second element of your wand: it is very difficult to convince a wand with a unicorn hair core to produce dark magic. Naturally unicorn hair connotes goodness and light, so dark magic goes against the core's very makeup."

It almost felt like a compliment, but knowing Sherlock John knew that his friend saw it as nothing more than a relation of data. "That's great. What about the last part that you mentioned? The rigidity of the wand? Is that important."

"The rigidity is a measure of the wizard's willingness to change or bend to another's will."

"Makes sense that your wand has no flexibility, then." John remarked, unable to remember a single time that Sherlock bent to another's will.

"Yes." Sherlock stretched himself out on the sofa again, apparently losing interest in the conversation now that his point was made.

"Could I have my wand back?" John asked, seeing that it was still in Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock tossed it carelessly and John caught it. He looked at it closely, wondering if he should get a book on wandlore from the library to confirm what Sherlock had said about the materials that made up his wand.


	23. Summer, Seventh Year

**Author's Note: Last of the summer stories! This is a longer one. Thanks to all who have favorited/reviewed/followed! I own nothing.**

The mug broke into pieces for the third time. Sherlock repaired it with a wave of his wand. Sherlock levitated the newly fixed mug, then flicked his wand so the mug flew across the room and crashed into the wall. The mug thus shattered again, Sherlock repaired it.

John watched this somewhat resignedly. Sherlock wasn't technically being destructive, as he repaired the mug as often as he destroyed it.

It was the summer after their last year at Hogwarts, and John felt like he had lost something. In a way he had. Sherlock had arrived at John's dingy little flat a week after the term ended and he had been lounging around the flat complaining of boredom since then.

John had just been accepted to a Muggle medical university whose term would begin in the fall, and he was taking a well-deserved break from work of any sort at the moment.

"Sherlock?" John said, watching Sherlock break then repair the mug for the fifth time. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock flicked his wand again; the mug broke. "Experimenting."

"Yeah?" John asked, eyebrow raised, for he couldn't see what possible data Sherlock was getting from breaking and repairing a mug repeatedly. "It doesn't look like it."

"Though this be madness, yet there is method in't." Sherlock said absently.

"That's a Shakespeare quote. You've read Shakespeare? I thought you avoided reading Muggle's work like the plague." John said.

Sherlock used a Summoning charm to make the repaired mug zoom into his hand. "Shakespeare was a wizard."

John blinked in surprise. "What? Really?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Well, what's the method to your madness, then? What's the experiment?" John asked.

Sherlock set the mug back on the table. "I'm analyzing the shatter patterns. The mug breaks in a different way each time, leading me to hypothesize that the method of destruction affects the quantity and shape of the shards."

John just nodded, wondering in what situation Sherlock would need that data.

Sherlock broke the mug one more time, and closely inspected the shards. With a satisfied nod, he repaired it and then held it out to John.

"Tea." He said.

John laughed. "In that mug? It's probably filthy."

Sherlock looked at the mug. "Scourgify." He said, pointing his wand at the mug. "There. Now tea." And he continued to brandish the mug in John's face imperiously.

John settled deeper into his armchair; he'd long been attempting to stop letting Sherlock walk all over him with his demands. "No, I already had mine. You can make your own."

The pale hand holding the mug out dropped. Sherlock sighed, "Fine." he said, proceeding to fill the kettle, boil the water, put in the teabag, pour the water into his mug, and begin drinking without leaving the couch. The making of the tea had been accomplished by several muttered spells and waves of his wand.

Sherlock sipped the tea and grimaced, "Forgot milk." He said. The solution to this problem was achieved with another wave of his wand.

John shook his head. "You know, you could've done that without magic."

"Why should I?" Sherlock took another drink of his tea.

With a shrug, John said, "I don't know, it doesn't take that much effort to do things the Muggle way. You don't have to use magic for _everything."_

Sherlock scoffed, "I don't use magic for _everything_."

John smirked, about to propose a challenge to his haughty friend. "I bet you couldn't last a day without magic."

"I don't think I'm any more dependent on magic than you are." Sherlock said petulantly.

John laughed, "Sherlock, I lived without magic for ten years before Hogwarts, and every summer since I started going to Hogwarts I've lived the Muggle way. You have _always_ had your needs and whims catered to since birth because of your magical family, and I know for a fact you didn't follow that no-magic-until-you're-of-age rule during school."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That doesn't negate my point that you are dependent on magic as much as I am."

"Yeah, I'm dependent on magic, but I think I could give it up for a day a lot easier than you could." John said.

"Well, we'll see about that. What are the terms of your bet? When do we start?" Sherlock said, perpetually eager to prove himself.

John grinned, "Okay, for twenty-four hours, neither of us can perform magic. The first person to cave and do a spell loses. If I win, you and your rich bank account are going to buy me tickets to this year's Quidditch World Cup." John said, confident he would win.

"Yes, yes. When _I_ win, you will have to agree to participate in an experiment I've been working on that needs a test subject."

John sighed. "That sounds foreboding. Testing a potion of your creation again?"

"Something like that." Sherlock said vaguely.

"Right. Oh, and speaking of potions, you can't make any during the duration of the bet." John said.

"What? Why not?' Sherlock asked, affronted.

"Muggles don't make potions, Sherlock. The rule is no magic, no wizard stuff."

Sherlock huffed. "Ridiculous." He muttered.

John smirked.

"When does the bet begin?" Sherlock asked.

John looked at the clock hanging in the small kitchen area, "Today's half over. I say we start tomorrow. Bright and early."

"Great." Sherlock said.

The next day, John left his wand on his bedside table, rather than depositing it in his pocket as he usually did after he got dressed in the morning. The temptation to do a spell would be too great if John had his wand with him.

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table looking at the tea kettle when John came into the main living area that morning.

"Hoping it'll make itself?" John asked, referring to Sherlock's contemplation of the kettle.

Sherlock sighed, but began making tea the Muggle way. John smiled inwardly: he was going to win this bet easily.

John found it novel to make his breakfast that morning; he took absurd pleasure in cracking the eggs, scrambling them and plating them, because, on any other day, he would've just waved his wand and supervised while his breakfast made itself.

Sherlock was less impressed with the manual process of making breakfast. Today, of all days, Sherlock had decided he was going to eat. Slowly, almost suspiciously, as though he didn't think it could possibly work, Sherlock put a piece of toast in the toaster and pulled down the lever.

It took Sherlock five minutes to butter the toast, and once he was finished, he pushed the plate away from him, "The effort expended isn't worth the result." He said, sitting down and running his pale hands through his wayward curls in frustration.

John just smiled, and ate another forkful of scrambled eggs. "Twenty-three hours to go."

Sherlock scowled at him. "Why are you so happy?"

"It's funny watching you struggle." John said.

Sherlock gave a heavy sigh, bringing his number of sighs for the morning up to an even ten.

After breakfast, John sat down in his armchair with a book and Sherlock reluctantly did the same. Fifteen minutes passed peacefully enough, with John perusing a novel he'd been meaning to read for ages but had never had the time for, and Sherlock thumbing through an old Herbology book of John's.

John, so immersed in his book, startled when, five minutes later, Sherlock threw his book across the room with an exclamation of "Dull!" John shook his head at his friend and tried to resume reading.

"Bored." Sherlock said, his long arms splayed over the armchair's arms and his feet tapping restlessly.

"You know, with your extensive vocabulary, I would think you could come up with a better way to describe your state of mind." John said unconcernedly, turning a page.

"Listless. Apathetic. Irritated. Disheartened. Exasperated. World-weary." Sherlock fired off.

"That's better."

"Where's my wand?" Sherlock said, suddenly looking around.

"Giving up already?' John asked, looking up at Sherlock.

"No. I just don't know where it is. I'm not going to use it, I just want to find it." Sherlock stood up and tore off the cushion of his armchair, looking for his wand.

"Check the sofa." John said, with a shrug, knowing Sherlock had spent almost the entire day yesterday lounging on the sofa.

Sherlock made a noise of satisfaction as a minute later he pulled out his wand from between the sofa cushions. He pouted, though, when he remembered he couldn't use it to fire random sparks at the wall as he had been doing to relieve boredom the last couple of days.

Sherlock threw his newly recovered wand onto the sofa and flopped down next to it, staring at it almost longingly. "No potions. No magic. Being a Muggle is ghastly." Sherlock said and John chuckled.

Silence descended again until John finished his chapter, closed the book and stretched. Looking over at Sherlock, who seemed to be counting the cracks in the ceiling, John said, "Want to get some lunch?" For it was past noon.

Sherlock didn't look at him. "Not hungry."

"Well, I know you're dying to leave the flat, I'm hungry, and my cupboards are bare. Let's go." John said, feeling rather like an exasperated single father with a child whose attention it was difficult to occupy.

Sherlock gave a theatrical groan and John said, "No complaints. Go get dressed."

Sherlock looked down at his attire: a rumpled dressing gown and pajamas. "Very well."

Ten minutes later, the two of them exited the flat. John hailed a cab and Sherlock almost pouted. John smiled, knowing Sherlock was bemoaning the fact that they couldn't apparate to their destination.

The hours trickled by slowly throughout the day. Wandless, John felt vulnerable. Conditioned as he was to doing magic at every possible opportunity, John reached into his pocket in search of his wand often to do a spell before he realized he didn't have it and he couldn't do magic if he did have his wand.

Sherlock had gone the less cautionary route and had brought his wand with him. He hadn't caved yet, though.

It was seven in the evening and neither of them had used magic. Sherlock was antsy and John was thinking they might have to call it a tie when Mycroft apparated into the room.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sherlock greeted his brother rather rudely.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "I've come on behalf of our parents. They wish to inquire how longer you will be avoiding them. You cannot remain—"

Before Mycroft could move to defend himself, Sherlock had whipped out his wand and silenced Mycroft with a muttered spell. John burst out laughing as Mycroft merely glared and brandished his own wand to remove the spell Sherlock had put on him.

"I win!" John said, still laughing. "I knew you couldn't do it!"

Mycroft, now able to speak, turned to John, "What on earth are you talking about?"

Sherlock shrugged, and hit Mycroft again with the Silencing spell. "It was worth it."

John grinned, "I'll expect the tickets to the World Cup in the morning."


	24. In Between Classes

**Author's Note: This is plotless, but I like it. My favorite kinds of fics are the ones that are basically plotless and character driven. Mostly because I can't write plot. I'm rambling, sorry. Please review, I'd love some feedback! I own nothing.**

A rainy Tuesday found Greg, John, and Sherlock during a break in classes playing a game of 'would you rather', Wizarding World edition in the library. More accurately, John and Greg were tossing questions back and forth at each other, playing the game, while Sherlock commented occasionally.

They had met in the library with the intention of studying for final exams together, but that plan had crumbled almost immediately as hypothetical conversation games were a much more interesting pastime than studying. Madam Pince looked across at them now and then with a scowl, especially when their laughs rang out clearly in the otherwise silent environment.

"Okay, would you rather be force-fed Veritaserum or a love potion?" John asked Greg.

Greg chuckled, "Who would the love potion make me fall in love with?", always asking the right questions.

John half-smiled as he thought, "Molly Hooper." He answered.

"That Hufflepuff girl?"

"Yeah. She's in your House, you'd be perfectly compatible." John said.

Greg shrugged. "Fine. Love potion, then. Hooper's cute. Though she wouldn't fall for me, she has eyes for no one but a certain Ravenclaw." Greg said, grinning, nodding his head at Sherlock.

Sherlock scowled and shook his head while John laughed.

"Her affections will never be returned." Sherlock said, not looking up from his Potions book.

"Well, soon she'll take the hint." Greg said. Changing the subject, he said. "Alright, John, would you rather come face to face with a dragon or an Acromantula?"

John, about to answer, was interrupted by Sherlock.

"Obviously, John would be ecstatic were he to see a dragon. He was obsessed with Medieval literature when he was younger—he is, after all, a romantic—and loved to read about the dragons in those fanciful books, for some unknown reason. Most likely his love for danger is the reason for his adoration of the great beasts."

John scoffed. "That's your explanation for every feature of my psyche: 'It's because he loves danger'". He told Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged, but otherwise did not respond.

"You do seem like a dragon guy, John." Greg said, nodding as if accepting this new information.

"Dragons are great." John said, "Sherlock's right, my answer is dragon."

"This is stupid." Sherlock muttered.

"Yeah. Kind of." John said, but continued, "What form do you think your Boggart would take?" He asked Greg, devolving from the would-you-rather game into general questions.

"My what?"

"Come on, Greg, this is third-year DADA stuff." John said, exasperated.

"Third-year was ages ago!"

"I'm disappointed in you, Greg." John said, a grin belying his stated disappointment. "Tell him what a Boggart is, Sherlock."

"A Boggart is a creature that takes the form of whatever most frightens the person who encounters it." Sherlock sounded bored.

"Sounds like he bloody memorized the book." Greg said under his breath.

"I wouldn't put that past him." John said, grinning at Sherlock who rolled his eyes.

"Well, I guess my Boggart would shape-shift to represent my crippling fear of dying alone." Greg said in a deadpan voice, a spark of humor in his eyes.

John laughed and Sherlock smirked a little.

"I think that would stump the Boggart. How the hell would the thing turn into an abstract fear or a hypothetical fear?" John said, still laughing.

"The Boggart draws on your childhood fears and irrational phobias, rather than attempting to tackle an abstract fear." Sherlock said, watching Greg and John laugh, his smirk still in place, though the smirk had turned rather disdainful.

"I was scared of the dark when I was younger." Greg admitted, "Would the Boggart pick up on that?"

"Yes, that is a physical fear." Sherlock said.

"Would he fill the room with darkness?"

"I suppose so."

"That'd be so bloody cool." Greg said, eyes unfocused as if envisioning all the ways his Boggart would try to scare him. "Maybe I should start paying more attention in Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Yes, you should. You still want to be an Auror, right? Aurors need top scores in DADA." John said. "God, if the Auror headquarters knew you didn't know what a Boggart was…" He trailed off, mocking Greg some more.

"Shut up, John, I've got plenty of time to learn everything."

"About two years." John said, suppressing a yawn and looking out the large rain-spattered windows. The dark clouds surrounding the castle gave the afternoon the appearance of night.

"What would your Boggart be, John?" Greg asked.

John shrugged, "I dunno..." he trailed off, knowing that if Boggarts lock onto childhood fears, his could very well take the form of his father, a man who terrorized John with physical and emotional abuse for years. John knew that Sherlock knew this aspect of his past, and he was amazed that Sherlock was holding the information back. "As a child I was scared of ghosts. I thought my house was haunted." John finally offered. "Maybe my Boggart would just turn into the Bloody Baron."

Greg snickered. "It's a good thing you aren't scared of ghosts anymore; you can't walk ten feet at Hogwarts without seeing a ghost."

"Or walking through one." John said. "Did I tell you Sherlock walked through a ghost while he was lost in his head the other day?"

Greg laughed while Sherlock scowled.

"I bet he snapped back to awareness real quick after that! Walking through a ghost is awful." Greg said through laughter.

John suppressed his own laughter for Sherlock's scowl had deepened, "Yeah, he seethed like a wet cat afterward, yelling at me for not warning him. I told him I did warn him, but it was like talking to a brick wall."

Sherlock spoke over Greg's renewed laughter, "One in three Hogwarts students walk through a ghost during their time at school. It is simple statistics that I was to be a victim as well."

"How'd you get that data? Did you sit in a corridor and watch the frequency of collisions with a ghost?"

"Yes." Sherlock said, as if this was a pastime everyone took part in.

"That does sound like it would be rather funny to watch." Greg said.

"Yeah." John said. He was about to suggest that they get some actual studying done when the bell rang, singling the end of break.


End file.
